


Vow

by TheIllusiveMantis



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Established Relationship, Gen, He/Him Pronouns for Gwyndolin, M/M, Marriage, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Canon, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2019-11-18 04:29:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 92,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18113315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIllusiveMantis/pseuds/TheIllusiveMantis
Summary: “Thou shouldst not promise what is utterly outside of thy power, my prince,” his knight scolds him.“Wouldst thou accept me?”“And become what? What can I be but thy knight?”--Lord Gwyn makes his firstborn son an offer beyond belief, but it comes at a terrible price.





	1. The Wyverns

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written a multi-chapter fic in a long time! Fast and loose liberties have been taken with old English and Dark Souls lore in equal measure. I also decided to use the name "Gwynsen" for NK in this one after reading up on lore posts!
> 
> Thanks for the comments/etc on my last story too -- I just had to write more. :) I promise I'll put more characters/etc in the tags later.

 

* * *

 

“Do not move, captain,” Ornstein hears somewhere far off in the distance, and realizes he has not died.

 

When he opens his eyes, it is to stare at the canvas top of a makeshift medical tent. Three healers are working miracles on his abdomen. They ignore him utterly as he takes stock of the room, sees his armor in bits and pieces on the floor, except for his greaves and sabatons, and one gauntlet. He gives himself the grotesque impression of a gift who has been opened hastily and whose contents are now being rifled through with abandon.

 

A young and fresh-faced knight is sitting near the entrance to the tent. Ornstein focuses on him to ease his mind from the sensation of knotting flesh, raw pain in his stomach. The lad is one from the newest recruits, and his captain is glad to see him looking whole and hale, if a bit colorless. Then the man turns, and jumps to see him looking.

 

Had this knight been a few years more experienced, he would have sensed his captain's silent inquiry and immediately started a report on the conditions of the battle, but he can't fault the lad for looking a bit out of his depth. Ornstein tests the feel of his tongue and throat before speaking. “The wyverns?” he manages, in a rasp. (Still the healers ignore him.)

 

The knight starts and straightens a bit, perhaps not expecting his captain to speak. “Both slain,” he reports, unable to keep the underlying elation out of his voice. “The firstborn and his company have felled the other. They are taking the heads now.”

 

“The other?” Ornstein presses, trying to conserve energy, but frustrated with his condition. The knight looks at him expectantly. “What of ours? Who has killed it?”

 

“Ours, captain? The wyvern we fought died by thy hand. In the moment, we thought thou gavest thy life to strike that blow.”

 

Ornstein is unhappy, but not entirely unsurprised to have no memories of the event, but he is glad to be alive and in one piece, and with both foes slain. He does remember the wyverns, from when they had just ridden in, when he and Gwynsen had made eye contact wordlessly from across their formation. _They are huge_ , they both had said in that silent moment, with some mixture of trepidation and awe and excitement, the latter mostly on the prince's part. His captain had already been formulating a plan and calculating losses. He wonders how many of those losses have come to pass.

 

Ornstein closes his eyes to rest. A moment passes, he isn't sure how long. When he comes to again, the healers are talking to each other quietly on the other end of the tent, the danger to his life having clearly passed. He blinks and sees the prince of the sun at his bedside.

 

Gwynsen. He is in one piece, sitting with ease. A smile washes slowly over the prince's face when he notices Ornstein's gaze. “Our captain lives,” he muses, softly. Ornstein offers a small smile of his own, though it is strained. He realizes he has been entirely stripped of his armor, now, and is wearing only what is required for modesty. Possibly he has even been scrubbed clean, in his sleep, for his skin feels raw and looks unblemished from blood or dirt. Gwynsen's appearance could not be more different, and Ornstein wonders if this is his first time at rest since the onslaught began. He looks freshly borne from battle, his armor a mess of crusted blood and grime, the visible hints of his skin much the same. He gives no indication of injury or discomfort, although from the body language of the healers in the corner, he may have jovially waved off their attentions once or twice.

 

“Thou art well,” Ornstein replies, finally. Words still feel clumsy in his mouth, but he no longer feels the tug of weariness. Gwynsen's hand is lightly gripping his, an ordinary bedside gesture for a close comrade, and Ornstein briefly concentrates on the feeling of his skin, callused and warm. “They are slain, I hear.”

 

“Yes,” Gwynsen acknowledges. “The both of them, dead.”

 

A silence passes over them, and Ornstein wonders if the same thought is passing between the two of them. _They were almost as big as true dragons, and resistant to our lightning besides, and we nearly did not kill them._

 

The healers are still in the room, which is not a surprise. True privacy is not possible on a campaign such as this, even when one is not injured. Nonetheless, Gwynsen reaches out and tucks a hair behind Ornstein's ear, a gesture of staggering fondness in the midst of all of this. “There-- I could tell it vexed thee,” Gwynsen says, in an almost offhand tone.

 

In that moment, Ornstein longs deeply for the comfort of Gwyn's keep in Anor Londo, the secrecy afforded by its labyrinthian passages and wide open rooms, so bare of places where prying eyes could hide. Even Ciaran and Artorias, true equals, could not touch each other, for out of propriety Artorias refused to go to her. But there was no room in the keep where Gwynsen, in a moment of opportunity, had not proclaimed his love for his first knight. The memory of it fills him with guilt, and want.

 

He comes back to his senses as Gwynsen ghosts a last gesture over his bare arm, then stands to leave. “We will camp tonight here and make for home in the morning hours,” he informs them all in the tent. “Ornstein, thou ridest with me,” he announces, then departs.

 

Ornstein cannot fault him for such a brief visit. He knows there will be much business to attend to, and he cannot assist with any of it in the state he's in. The healers seem aggrieved to hear that Ornstein will soon be sitting a horse, but their miracles have stitched him whole well enough, and he is willing to suffer the discomfort it will take to get him to Anor Londo that much faster.

 

* * *

 

 

That night, the healers work to get him on his feet, which he manages without an overabundance of pain. He isn't supposed to go far, of course. He aims for the fire.

 

The men are gathered together, engaged in the usual drunken revelry. Above all, they celebrate their own still-beating hearts. He hears the names of their new dead spoken with sorrow and reverence, and etches them deeper into his own mind.

 

The horns of the dead wyverns are visible from behind a tent.

 

“Ornstein.” He hears the unmistakably gentle voice of Artorias beckoning him, and turns to find his friend sitting separated from the rest of the men. The great knight of Gwyn was known to prefer a degree of solitude, at least when it came to large parties. Grateful for the familiar face, the knight captain takes a seat next to him. “I am relieved to see thee looking well,” Artorias continues. “News in the battlefield was unreliable. We knew not for certain of thy condition. Is there pain?”

 

Ornstein shakes his head, though of course there is, but it is bearable. “What of thy skirmish with the drakes?” he asks, eager to get answers of his own.

 

Artorias looks a bit troubled. “Well, I am no dragonslayer,” he answers after a long pause. “But we have come out on top of it.”

 

It is the kind of vague answer Artorias often gives, which means he is not proud of the killing. It is the kind of thing that makes him a valiant knight, but would surely hold him back in a position like the one that Ornstein occupies.

 

“They are dragonkin,” Ornstein reminds him. “They are not like us. They feel no mercy or fear or sorrow. To kill them is to rid the world of a scourge.”

 

Artorias has a strange look on his face. “Didst thou hear... the screaming?” he asks, with hesitation. “Twas just before the Firstborn felled the red.”

 

Ornstein freezes. The two wyverns, the biggest and grandest of the dragonkin colony, had been a red and a gold. Ornstein knows he set his company's target for the gold, but his memories end there. From what he has pieced together, the wyvern had managed to hold on after what should have been a killing blow from his spear, and had attempted to drag Ornstein down into death with it. He doesn't recall any screaming. “Screaming? From the wyvern?”

 

“The red. It screamed,” Artorias acknowledges.

 

Ornstein knows his friend, knows Artorias cannot hear the sounds of a dying deer or rabbit without anguish in him. He'd once thought it his weakness, but has come to realize it is a strength, for his motivation is to protect the innocent and the defenseless. The wyverns had been anything but – yet Ornstein feels sympathy for his friend's sensitive heart. “It will pass,” he says, placing a hand on Artorias' shoulder.

 

“Thou'rt right, my friend. Dragonkin have no place in this age, yet we cannot account for their tricks. We suffer the pain of killing so others will not know dragonfire.”

 

Or _dragon's lightning_ , Ornstein thinks grimly, because there is no question what they witnessed on the battlefield today.

 

“What of the prince?” he asks after an acceptable time has elapsed, and a passing squire has brought them drink. “I saw him briefly. He looked unharmed from the battle.”

 

“He is as he always is,” Artorias says. “A born warrior. Lord Gwyn will be proud. I cannot fathom how it can be otherwise...”

 

It would be a strange statement if overheard, but Ornstein knows the meaning. A friction lies between Gwynsen and his father, one that cannot be accounted for by anyone's reckoning. “The heads of the wyverns will please him for a while,” the knight captain points out. “A grand reception is surely in store for us back home. Only...” he cuts himself off abruptly.

 

Artorias notices his reticence at once and turns to face him. “Only what?” he nudges.

 

“Only I hope the news does not travel of my nearly being taken down by a dragonkin, and not even a true dragon,” he grumbles into his drink, to the boisterous laughter of his friend.

 

“Thy pride is as healthy as ever, my friend.” Artorias claps him on the back. “Worry not, for thou shalt always have the favor of Lord Gwyn.”

 

Words spoken very boldly by his good friend, his good friend who is entirely unaware that the knight captain takes the lord of sunlight's eldest son to bed.

 

“Where is Gwynsen?” he asks, his facade slipping for a moment.

 

Artorias does not comment on use of the prince's first name, though Ornstein ordinarily takes care not to speak it in the presence of others. “Not here, I only know,” he says.

 

Ornstein frowns. The fact of this is surprising. Of course the men fight for the safety of their families and for the safeguarding of their fledgling age of fire, but above all, sometimes, it feels like they fight for the eldest son. Gwynsen is many things: he is the sun, personified: white-hot and unstoppable. His presence among the men is taken for granted on a campaign. Retiring early after a hard-won victory is most unlike him.

 

“If he is in his tent, I shall stop in and see him,” he announces, rising unsteadily to his feet (he leaves the cup on the ground for some page to gather). “Thou shouldst rest early, Artorias.”

 

Artorias raises his own cup to him in a weary acknowledgment. “I shall make my best effort. Good night, Ornstein.”

 

Hobbling to Gwynsen's tent in the most dignified way he can muster, Ornstein observes that no lights flicker inside. A knight at the doorway sees his captain approach, and hesitates.

 

“Captain,” he stammers. “My Lord has retired early. He says he does not wish to be disturbed...” the knight is almost trailing off, looking at Ornstein as if awaiting further clarification. Clearly, the knight is unsure whether or not the prince's trusted knight is bound by those orders.

 

Ornstein frowns. Was this meant as a deterrent only to others? Was it taken as understood that he should visit Gwynsen? He isn't sure. The uncertainty gnaws at him. The knight is still searching his face, equally lost. “Is that so,” Ornstein says at length. “I shalln't disturb his rest. We are all in need of it. Goodnight, sir.”

 

He can hardly change his mind in a dignified fashion after this exchange, but his heart is heavy with imaginings. He only wants to sit with Gwynsen a while, let the prince play with his hair the way he enjoys, lie down with him in his cot and pretend they can drift to sleep like this before Ornstein's extended presence draws the curiosity of the entire camp.

 

But Ornstein also imagines a scenario where his presence is obtrusive, unasked-for, overly presumptive. He decides he would rather be possibly missed, than risk that.

 

* * *

 

 

Gwynsen's steed, of course, is the largest and grandest of the horses in the company, befitting his status as a god. It carries two with ease, and it is swift.

 

“Good morning, my knight,” Gwynsen greets him near the horses with his usual airiness and warmth, and Ornstein's trepidation from the previous night dissolves. “We depart shortly. Art thou ready for the journey?”

 

Things are loaded onto the beasts, brief good-byes are exchanged with the rest of the company, and then the sun's eldest lifts Ornstein onto the mount's back behind him as if he were weightless. A part of Ornstein bristles with something like indignity at not being astride his own horse, but his aching body is glad. Gwynsen rides as briskly as the wind, but the size of the horse means that its strides are not so rapid, and his lover's presence eases his discomfort besides.

 

It is decided that Knight Artorias will stay with the slower-moving caravan and aid the silver knights in the event of ambush; ordinarily Ornstein's job, but he is small use like this. Their elite dispatch, only Lord Gwyn's firstborn son and his small retinue, ride with due speed to Anor Londo and arrive to give a firsthand report.

 

Ornstein is sore all over when they arrive, but still in one piece due to the attentions of the healer who rode in their company and attended him briefly while the horses rested. He knows it will do him good to retire straight away, and sort out the rest upon awakening, but Gwynsen insists on an audience with his father and Ornstein insists on his own presence.

 

Lord Gwyn listens quietly with rapt attention, alternately closing his eyes or boring a hole into the table as Gwynsen describes the size of the wyverns, how lightning barely fazed them, how they fought with a desperate brutality not personally witnessed in a race of dragons before. At that, Ornstein studies Gwynsen very closely. He only remembers flashes of the battle, but Gwynsen's words are vivid.

 

“Their everlasting cousins fought for their right of dominion,” The prince explains, his face alight with inner fire, “but these wyverns, the way they resisted us, it was...” It is not like him to struggle for words, but he struggles now, enough so that Lord Gwyn turns his red-hot gaze upon him.

 

“But thine forces were victorious.” Gwyn's voice is like thunder. “Their heads shall mount the walls of this keep. Dost thou suggest additional cautions for the _malformed cousin_ s of the dragons?”

 

“Sir Ornstein was injured,” Gwynsen bites back.

 

The dragonslayer balks, glad he is wearing his helm to keep the look of dismay off his face. “Twas nothing, my lord,” he attempts evenly, hoping he can retain his poise without appearing to argue with Gwynsen in front of this audience. “Only a surprise levied by an unfamiliar foe. I am well enough now.”

 

Gwyn gives Ornstein a long, studious look, before turning back to his son. “I understand men are dead,” he says at last. “Such is any warfare with the dragons and their kin. Still, I hope a revered dragonslayer will take more precautions in the future.”

 

It is the nearest thing to a reprimand Ornstein has heard from Lord Gwyn for many years whilst in his service. It is a stiff gesture, but he nods humbly, accepting it.

 

Gwynsen is clearly not happy. “We cannot presume to know one foe because we have fought well against another,” he insists. “Perhaps a wyvern is not a dragon. Perhaps we do not know much of dragons, only how to kill them.”

 

Gwyn stands up in a movement so sudden that a number of those present flinch in their seats. “What else shall we learn of them?!” he demands. “We seek only their total destruction.”

 

“Shall I convey thine intentions to the duke?” Gwynsen snaps, and now Gwyn colors fully.

 

“The duke is many things, but a dragon he is not,” Gwyn spits. “A cripple cast out from the dragons, never one of their number. He is proven to me as a sorcerer, and one who has saved thy brother Gwyndolin, besides! Thou darest bring him into discussion of his cursed kin!”

 

“I bring him in because he does not willingly show himself, no matter how many summons thou extendest him.”

 

Above all, it is this insult to his father's authority that insults Lord Gwyn the most, Ornstein can see. Gwynsen has trampled the implicit understanding that such matters were off-limits, not to be spoken of. The rage on the great lord's face is now thoroughly incandescent.

 

“Leave this room.” Like a rumble of distant thunder, a danger is conveyed in Gwyn's voice from far away, a storm barely held in check. Gwynsen rises.

 

“I summon my knight to me,” he announces as he leaves, and swiftly, Ornstein obeys, courteously bowing and following his master out of the room before he can see the reaction this produces on Lord Gwyn's face.

 

* * *

 

In the grand corridor, the prince is thrumming with energy. He bounces between anger and pensiveness, pacing and pausing and standing at some window to consider some far off view of Lordran. Ornstein anticipates these stops as best he can, trying to give the two of them some outward appearance of stateliness and purpose to make up for Gwynsen's sporadic state of mind.

 

“He is stubborn.” Gwynsen finally says, his voice carefully measured, when it has been so long that Ornstein had concluded that they would not speak of it. “He will not see. Not even when the truth is laid out before him by his own flesh and blood, and by his family's most trusted knight.”

 

“He is not wrong, however. We _did_ emerge victorious.” Ornstein points out, “and the losses were not as severe as I'd prepared us for. We may make our own considerations in the future when up against these enemies, unpredictable though they may be.”

 

Gwynsen shakes his head, as if he isn't really listening to Ornstein at all. His gaze is steadfast on some faraway mountain as the outside sun paints his features in gold. Ornstein finds he is annoyed, which he is unaccustomed to. Of course the gods have a right not to consider his own personal thoughts and feelings – it does not change merely because he is Gwynsen's lover, he scolds himself.

 

“I wish to speak to the paledrake,” Gwynsen announces after the moment has drawn uncomfortably long. His gaze finally settles on Ornstein, and a more determined look is fixed in his golden eyes. “He will not attend my father's councils anymore, and my father is too stubborn and proud to go to him, even though he is a living dragon, and on our side.”

 

“The duke?” Ornstein asks, with some degree of measured incredulity. He takes a brief look around to make sure they are not heard or observed. “I had reason to think thou mistrusted him,” he utters, quietly.

 

“I _greatly_ mistrust him,” Gwynsen retorts, “in knowing that he has his own motives for all things, and they do not necessarily align with our own. But knowledge is his domain, and he lived among his kind for centuries. He may be able to tell us more about the emergence of these wyverns and drakes.”

 

Ornstein cannot dispute the logic of that. “That may be the case. Prithee let me come with thee.”

 

“If thou desirest.” Gwynsen looks a little surprised. “I thought thou mistrusted him also.”

 

“Myself and most of the nobility of Lordran, but all the more reason for me to stand with thee.”

 

The prince looks faintly amused now, but his smile does not reach all the places where it normally does. “Of course thou art welcome wherever I might go. I am worried, though, that today my zealousness has put thee through a tense council meeting thou wert not sufficiently recovered for. Forgive me,” he says, faintly.

 

Something still troubles him. A clouded look reigns in the prince's eyes. Boldly, Ornstein takes half a step forward. “I may retire early tonight,” he acknowledges. “As thou biddest me earlier. My prince... perhaps thou shouldst, as well.” He captures the attention of those golden eyes in his, watching as they focus on him and slowly return to life. “We have been a long time away,” he reminds him.

 

Gwynsen, quite clearly, hesitates. And that moment, that hesitation, is so unfamiliar that Ornstein is alarmed. It is just like the moment in the council chamber, before his father and the other advisors. “Prithee, what is it?” he implores, unable to keep his tone formal.

 

Seeing the beginnings of fear on his knight's stoic face, the prince steps towards him with a smile and kisses him deeply. “Have some consideration. Thou art injured,” he murmurs against Ornstein's lips. “Once we are in that room thou shalt want to do unmentionable things to me, and thy body cannot handle it.”

 

Something is still abnormal, but Ornstein doesn't have the faculty to question much when they are locked together like this. “I only wish to be alone with thee,” he murmurs, “and worry the details later.”

 

Gwynsen now looks at him with such a stricken, intense expression that a flare of Ornstein's fear returns, though he knows not why. “That is my wish too. Come.”

 

* * *

 

 

Gwynsen's rooms are closer, and the halls are emptier. A trusted knight's presence, besides, is not so strange. But soon Ornstein's armor is discarded, and he lies in the broad arms of his beloved prince, his mind adrift in the kind of exalted bliss that he discovers anew every time they allow themselves this. He eyes his gilt armor from across the room and knows there will come a time where he must become that knight again, but right now that time seems so distant, so shapeless.

 

Gwynsen leans over him, kissing a heated trail down his neck, and he arches into it. A soft moan escapes. Remnants of the pain from his wound linger, but they are nothing compared to the glow he feels under his skin. His hands thread through bunches of silvery hair.

 

Suddenly, he feels the swelling pace of their encounter halt abruptly. Gwynsen's hands have paused on his stomach, his thumbs trailing either side of his abdominal muscles. Ornstein gets a glimpse of his face – and is caught up in what he sees. The prince looks to be focusing hard, but at the same time, there is a far-off look in his eye. He is stuck in this moment and in another at the same time.

 

Several words die on Ornstein's tongue. Wry comments, concerned questions. He is afraid to break this moment, afraid to miss something. The tension in the air feels as taut as a bowstring, ready to snap.

 

“They told me thou hadst fallen in battle,” Gwynsen says.

 

Ornstein tries to mask the jolt of surprise in his reaction. “Here I am, as whole as thou art.” One of his ankles teases the edge of his prince's thigh, a gentle suggestion to bring their bodies together, but it is missed entirely.

 

“The knight who delivered the news told me that thou gavest thy life to fell the wyvern, and I waited to feel something.” Gwynsen shakes his head. “But...”

 

This was unexpected too. Ornstein's blood feels cold in his veins.

 

“Thou felt nothing?” he ventures, his voice smooth, already a shield between them.

 

“Thou knowest what it is to watch a sworn brother fall in battle,” Gwynsen's tone is cracked, imploring, so alien and strange that all Ornstein can do is stare at him. “Everything is intensified: horror, rage, disgust. As is joy, when you avenge them.”

 

Joy? “I think many men do not find joy in battle.” But as Ornstein says the words, he thinks of the drunken revelries at the fire, as much celebrations as they were solemn send-offs. And he knows he has found that joy in the kill, too.

 

“But the messenger said those words, and something... sparked out and was gone.” Now his tone is hollow, his face slack. “I became aware of nothing inside me, a void, only bloodlust. When we came across the second wyvern it was insensible, it cared nothing for us. It saw the body of the wyvern thou nearly died to slay, Ornstein. The cries of anguish it made...” he pauses only briefly. “I hated to hear them. All the way down inside me, I hated to hear-- the sound was unbearable. We slaughtered it. I ordered it butchered.”

 

Ornstein holds both sides of his prince's face. His heart is raw hearing the pain in Gwynsen's voice. “Thou hast avenged me, and here I am not dead,” he says, reassuringly, but these are clearly not the words the prince has sought. “Here. It is alright-”

 

“It is not!” Gwynsen roars, and Ornstein rears back, genuine fear taking hold now. He thinks maybe he does not understand after all. Just as quickly as it appeared, though, the rage in the prince's eyes is gone.

 

“I watched them deface that beast, on my own orders,” he says. “And all the while, it felt like I was cutting off my own head.”

 

“Thou'rt upset because they feel pain, like us.” Ornstein surmises.

 

“Even a lizard in the dirt feels pain. But do they mourn comrades?” Gwynsen shakes his head. “The everlasting dragons we took for living statues, obstacles on the path to our glory. Whose glory is it if the way they have changed to suit our age of fire is to learn from our agony? To adopt true pain?”

 

He is quiet for a moment. Ornstein's fingers have returned to Gwynsen's hair, combing through it at the temples, gently as he can manage. He has decided he will say nothing, because he does not trust the words that jump to his lips. The subject of the dragons has stirred emotions in his own heart, emotions at odds with what he hears from his prince.

 

“Of course... I heard thou wert found to be clinging to life and had been saved. And I felt a breath of the ordinary return, and I thought all could be as it was.” Gwynsen laughs bitterly. “Joy and sorrow and rage rushed back in to fill me too quickly... it was difficult to see thee. I got back to my tent and I could not stop shaking. In that moment I could not have picked up a knife to defend myself. I was helpless, like a child.”

 

Ornstein feels pinpricks of wetness against his chest and realizes they are tears from the eyes of his prince. He stares at Gwynsen, stares at the weakness in him, the weakness that flows freely in front of his most trusted knight.

 

“Thou must think me mad at last,” Gwynsen utters.

 

“I am forever on thy side,” Ornstein professes without hesitation, and hears his own voice tremble. He brings Gwynsen up so that their faces align, and kisses his cheek with gentleness.

 

“It is not enough. I was raised in excess and cannot be satisfied.” Though tears traverse his cheek, the prince smiles like the morning light. “Thou must be forever _by_ my side, as well. Always.”

 

“Is that all?” Ornstein kisses him again. “I have much more to give thee.”

 

“Guide me, and I shall take it.”

 

* * *

 

 

Ornstein awakens in the dead of night. His body's natural rhythm is upset, and he can feel there are no rays of dawn beckoning for a few hours yet.

 

It is likely his body aches more than it did before, but the pain is transformed into something else. It is easy to see why so many mortals swear devotion to the gods: their affections when turned upon one single soul are like a swaddling blanket, to keep one safe from harm.

 

 _Or maybe_ , he thinks, _this is how all feel in the resplendence of their love's bed._ He has certainly never felt anything like this in the aftermath of an inconsequential tryst. Regret, sure.

 

He can feel the weight of Gwynsen in the bed, but cannot hear the even tones of his breathing, meaning he must also be awake. That is strange indeed. In case he is wrong, he keeps his voice quiet. “Gwynsen?”

 

The prince answers. “Did I wake thee?” He feels warm fingers find his skin, and he is gently pulled into an embrace as his lover sidles up next to him in the massive bed. “Or dost thou hurt?”

 

Ornstein smirks. “Thou shalt have to work harder to break me.”

 

“Then I should have to find a new dragonslayer,” Gwynsen murmurs into his ear, “one who stokes less the fire in me, lest I should break him too.”

 

A hand cups his face in the dark, and Ornstein leans into the kiss that is proffered, reaching out his own hands to find and trace the hard lines and raised edges of his prince's form. The closeness warms him, but for now he still feels the lazy satiation of their earlier encounter, and is content to run his fingers over the ridges of his scars.

 

“Why art thou awake, my love?” he asks after several silent minutes have passed, when he has just about forgotten that they have words at their disposal.

 

He cannot see Gwynsen's face in the dark, but in his mind's eye it is pensive, drawn. “Much has happened,” he says at last. “I always knew it possible, somehow, that I could lose thee in battle, but now the memories and feelings have a shape and form. They are vivid. I replay events in my mind, tormenting myself.” He pauses. “I hear the scream of the red wyvern. Like a dream... its agony is mingled with my own.”

 

“An effect of the confusion of battle.” Ornstein knows it well.

 

“It is more than that. I see myself there, with the wyvern. We have both just witnessed the ones we love slain, and the response of the dragonkin was to mourn... while mine was to ruin and destroy.”

 

“If ever I am actually felled on the field, thou must do what thou wert trained to do,” Ornstein presses, though he is not sure it is a productive line of reasoning. “If thou dost not kill, thou too shalt fall, and thou art the heir of sunlight.”

 

“An heir with two others behind me,” Gwynsen retorts. “Not irreplaceable.”

 

“Moreso than I am. Thou hast just threatened to replace me, after all, if I am ever broken from the force of our love,” he teases, and hears an unhappy sound.

 

“...The subject pains me. I know it a necessary one, but I worry this pain will not ease.” Gwynsen's hand is on his own, and he squeezes his palm in the dark as if clinging to it. “Above all, I cannot bear the thought of thy death, or mine own, knowing no one will know I was thine.”

 

Ornstein's eyes are adjusting, now, and he can see the prince's silhouette in the darkness, the suggestion of his eyes blinking back at him. “Art thou mine?” he breathes, softly. “I am the one who made a vow.”

 

“I would make a hundred vows to thee,” Gwynsen pledges at once, sounding breathless and serious as he inclines himself so that he is leaning over Ornstein. “if thou wouldst hear them.”

 

“The sentiment is sweet,” Ornstein acknowledges, leaning in to kiss his lover's neck, just below the jaw, “but what canst thou promise but thy love? And thou givest it freely in this room.”

 

“One day we shall marry,” Gwynsen proclaims, as Ornstein snorts his startled disbelief into the prince's shoulder, “and I shall make all bear witness to it.”

 

“Thou shouldst not promise what is utterly outside of thy power, _my prince_ ,” his knight scolds him.

 

“Wouldst thou accept me?”

 

“And become what? What can I be but thy knight?” The jest on Gwynsen's part is well-meant, but Ornstein cannot help but be put in mind of what surely must come one day: that Gwynsen must marry after all, to an acceptable bride of Lord Gwyn's choosing. He is not sure he could bear to share Gwynsen's bed after that, even if it is offered. Such would be beyond what his honor allowed.

 

“I have worked hard to get thee to return my love,” Gwynsen picks up where he left off, interrupting Ornstein's unpleasant thoughts with a row of kisses to his upper arm, “so perhaps I should not get over-eager, hrm? I cannot have my dragonslayer fleeing from me when I still have need of him.”

 

 _Indeed,_ Ornstein thinks. _While thou still hast need of me._

 


	2. Incautious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The knights return, Ornstein carries on as best he can, and the prince does not understand a certain concept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I may have to up the rating as I have written a few lurid sentences.

 

* * *

 

Ornstein stands as unmoving as a statue as the scene before him unfolds.

 

The blast knocks Gwynsen several paces back. He staggers, then straightens his back and belts out a laugh.

 

“I see now why he calls this one a _Great_ Soul Arrow,” he calls.

 

On the other side of the hall Gwyndolin stands with his catalyst raised, his body still carrying the stiffness that comes with uncertainty, but he cannot help a small smile at the sound of his elder brother's laugh. “Pray... I did not hurt thee, brother?”

 

Gwynsen's grin at that might have been detestable on anyone else. “Little brother, thou shalt never put a scratch on me. Do not hold back. It is like sparring – what substitute exists for a live target?”

 

_Do not get so cocky_ , Ornstein wants to reprimand him, though he doubts Gwyndolin will ever go all-out in these sorcery demonstrations, just in case. He is grateful of the younger son's restraint. _A time shall surely come when Gwyndolin's handle on this magic outstrips what we understand of it._ Instead he is a part of the scenery, a loyal knight attending his lieges.

 

Unexpectedly, Gwynsen turns to him. “Perhaps Sir Ornstein would like to join in on the fun?” he offers, with a wicked smile.

 

_Volunteering me for target practice?_ Ornstein thinks, warily. He inclines his helmed head at Gwynsen in a way that must somehow convey his criticism, for the prince laughs again.

 

“How thou abusest thy knight!” Gwyndolin scoffs. “Father would disapprove.”

 

_Thy father would disapprove of a lot of things thy brother does to his knight_ , Ornstein cannot help thinking in his own head. “Tis not abuse,” Gwynsen exclaims in mock offense. “Surely there shall come a day where Sir Ornstein must defend himself against practitioners of sorcery. I hear somehow the duke's discoveries have been circulating in the society of men.”

 

“Tis only a rumor,” Gwyndolin dismisses, surely echoing Seath's own words. “Humans cannot hope to attain true mastery. Their soul is... too dark.”

 

Gwynsen shrugs. “Thou art the expert, brother,” he concedes. “But do speak up, Sir Ornstein, if thou wouldst like a firsthand demonstration from Gwyndolin, all the same. Tis but a tingle.”

 

_Looked like a lot more than that._ But Ornstein sees Gwyndolin observing him with a faintly hopeful curiosity. It has been clear for some time that the younger prince has been often regaled with tales of Ornstein's exploits against the dragons, and has lately been somewhat shy and reserved around him. “Very well, my lord,” he says, and steps forward to face Gwyndolin.

 

The younger prince looks nervous suddenly, perhaps unprepared for the actual event. He looks to his elder brother in a wordless plea for reassurance. “Start with the weaker spell, for thine own comfort, Gwyndolin,” Gwynsen calls. “But worry not. You see, Sir Ornstein does not break easily _._ ”

 

The innocuous-sounding comment is meant to throw him off-balance. Ornstein ignores it, focuses on bracing himself as he sees Gwyndolin readying a spell. He shifts into a defensive pose just as he sees the blue light surging for him.

 

The impact is not as severe as he'd expected. It is enough to knock some of the wind out of him, but he still holds his ground. _Odd_ – he wasn't sure what to expect from soul sorcery, but the blow is nearly the same as any other. The sensation is only a little different from a strike by a wielded weapon.

 

Absorbing the hit has sparked something in his blood, and he wishes this could be a proper exchange of blows. But now is not the time for sparring. He stands up straight as Gwynsen had done a few moments before, and makes a small bow to Gwyndolin. “Thank thee for the demonstration,” he says, in lieu of anything more proper, but when he looks up, he sees now that the princes are staring at something beyond him.

 

“What foolishness is this?” comes the unmistakable voice of Lord Gwyn. Turning at once, Ornstein drops to his knee in a bow. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Gwynsen and Gwyndolin lowering their heads in deference to their father.

 

“Only a sorcery demonstration, father,” Gwyndolin speaks, his voice cutting through whatever the elder prince had been about to say. “I was showing Gwynsen and Sir Ornstein a bit of what the duke has taught me. They swore I would not injure them.”

 

“...It was all quite harmless, father.” Gwynsen finishes for him, looking very unabashed.

 

Lord Gwyn makes a disquieted _garumph_ , glancing between the three of them with a withering look. “Thou must not let thyself be taken in by thy brother's charm, Gwyndolin. Thine gifts are not a game, nor do they exist for thy brother's amusement.” He turns his eyes on his firstborn son. “And thou hast involved Sir Ornstein in this, though I am told he is not fully recovered. It is no way to treat thy knight!”

 

Ornstein can see Gwyndolin's head turn slightly towards his brother and wonders if it is a _I told thee so_. For his part, Gwynsen looks as though he bites back a remark. “Yes, father.”

 

“It pleases me to know thy studies with the duke are fruitful,” Gwyn says to Gwyndolin, his voice smoother now. “In thee he has always seen much promise... a testament to his care for thee.”

 

“The duke has been good company to me, father. I am grateful for his help.”

 

Gwyn nods, satisfied and seemingly in better humor. As he passes them, he claps Gwynsen on the shoulder in perhaps a gesture of peace. The elder prince stands stonily still as his father exits, trailed by a few incurious knights who nod their head in greeting to their captain.

 

“Gwyndolin,” Gwynsen says once their father is gone. “I would like an audience with Seath.”

 

Now his brother looks at him, obviously caught off-guard. “Thou... wouldst like to speak to the duke? I'm afraid that might be impossible.”

 

“Impossible?” The elder prince repeats, shaking his head. “But thou has just met with him thyself. Why does he hide from the eyes of the court? He once relished in the attention, even thou must remember.”

 

“He tires of such things,” Gwyndolin says simply. “He is absorbed in study now. Thou dost not speak that language, brother.”

 

“Not much of a duke, is he?” Gwynsen remarks. “More of a... weird little hermit.” His younger brother fixes him with a look that puts Ornstein in mind of Lord Gwyn himself. “Well, I suppose he is not so little,” Gwynsen concedes.

 

“We will not overstay our welcome,” Ornstein speaks up, on his prince's behalf, hoping he is not too bold. Gwyndolin peers at him, his curiosity awakened again.

 

“Sir Ornstein, thou accompaniest Gwynsen?”

 

“A loyal knight he is, Gwyndolin. When may we see the duke?”

 

“I know not.” The slight prince hangs his arms limply at his sides. “He does not keep a schedule. Everything he does is at a moment's whim-”

 

“Then it matters not when we go,” Gwynsen decides. He bows sweepingly low before his brother. “Thank thee for showing us thine sorceries, beloved brother,” he declares.

 

“Do not be brash,” Gwyndolin cautions him, sounding still a bit fraught. “I know not how he will react to thy visit--”

 

“Worry not, for we are both dragonslayers.” Gwynsen winks. “And I doubt the duke has forgotten that fact.”

 

* * *

 

The midday sun is still young, and quiet reigns. Warm sunlight gleams off the familiar stone walls of Gwyn's keep. It is timeless here, Ornstein thinks: blood and battle and hardship do not visit them here. Only do they witness the cycles of the sun and moon.

 

Gwynsen's spirit has been airy and light since they met this morning (after their discrete parting only a few hours before), leaving a bit of his good humor in those they have encountered. It is a welcome change from his fear and uncertainty of the night before, though Ornstein cannot help but feel pride at his personal significance to his prince for having seen him in his time of weakness. The thought is special and secret.

 

“So.” Ornstein struggles to keep pace with Gwynsen, whose long strides are forcing him to amble quite a bit faster than normal. “We attend the duke, then?”

 

They turn a corner, and it is the last thing Ornstein expects when he feels himself seized about the middle and angled up into a wall, the world suddenly brighter as his helm is pulled over his head. He scarcely has time to voice a complaint, or to ease the air back into his lungs when Gwynsen's mouth smothers him in an eager kiss that pins him in place against the stone. Then, just as quickly, the prince is pulling back, a wild and mischievous glint in his eye.

 

Ornstein is incredulous. He feels cold metal against his lips; with his own gauntleted hand, he has instinctively reached up to wipe at the saliva drying around his mouth. “Art thou mad,” he manages.

 

He reaches for his helm, but Gwynsen holds it infuriatingly just out of his reach, using his extra height to his advantage. Flushing with embarrassment, Ornstein twists out of his prince's grip and turns away, as if that will solve matters. He feels the weight of Gwynsen's hand on his arm. “Do not be mad, my knight,” he teases gently. “It was only a passing whim. Here.” He turns over Ornstein's hand and presses the helm into his palm.

 

Without another word, Ornstein clicks the helm back into place, but he cannot shake the feeling that all the world walking by would be able to see his red cheeks and the evidence of Gwynsen's lips on him. He cannot be angry. He is still a knight. He only stands there, helplessly cycling through his emotions. “If thou wouldst like to berate me, do so openly.” Gwynsen urges. But how can he?

 

“...I was asking about the duke, my lord.” He manages at last, in an even tone.

 

“The way my brother talked about him, he sounded... hrm, a bit _concerningly_ mad?” Gwynsen hesitantly accepts the subject change. “But so long as he stays locked up in his books, I guess it is no trouble of ours.” The prince contemplates the stone tile at his feet for a moment. “I am not ready to see him yet, no. I do believe I must be sure about my questions and their phrasing. I wish to get answers out of him without doing anything that will upset Gwyndolin. It puzzles me, but thou seest they are quite close.”

 

It does not puzzle Ornstein, so much, for he knows the young prince and the eons-old dragon were once spoken of in quite the same hushed and mistrustful tones. Gwyndolin has now been accepted and exalted in his rightful place as a prince born of the son, only that is in no small part due to...

 

“Thy father cares most deeply about Gwyndolin,” Ornstein remarks, gently.

 

Gwynsen looks up at him quickly, but his gaze is not troubled. “Thou seest it too, how he indulges him like no other?” He shakes his head. “I am glad of it, truly. There was a time when my sister and I were not sure what the outcome of it would be.” Ornstein knows, generally, to what he refers, and nods seriously.

 

“I _do_ think it wise to have some time to consider thy questions,” he says, and Gwynsen brightens just a little.

 

“ _Yes_ , that old dragon is incredibly slippery,” comes a voice that is definitely not that of the prince.

 

Ornstein's muscles seize. Standing there beside them is his fellow knight, Ciaran, called the Lord's Blade. There is no way to know how long she has been here, and her masked face betrays no hints.

 

“Ciaran.” Ornstein keeps his voice level, but this time he cannot keep a touch of the agitation he feels out of his voice. He only hopes there is not also fear there. “Thou shouldst announce thyself before thy captain and thy prince.” Perhaps it is incriminating, but his blood feels hot.

 

“Forgive me, captain.” She does not sound overly humbled. “But I am afraid thou hast caught me as off-guard as the reverse.” There is something in her voice that, over the years, Ornstein has come to identify as something near to weariness, or the nearest that Ciaran can display in her capacity as a master spy.

 

“Art thou on our lord's business?”

 

“Only my own bed awaits me,” she quips, “for I have been Gwyn's eyes all night, and now I must blink.” She tilts her head in Gwynsen's direction for a moment, considering him, but does not address her prince. “Does the caravan arrive?”

 

“They are due back by nightfall.” In spite of his racing heart, Ornstein feels a pang of guilt for not having thought of the company of knights since his arrival back in Anor Londo. “Knight Artorias accompanies them.”

 

“Hrm, does he? That concerns me not,” Ciaran answers in a wry and breezy tone, knowing it is overdone. She does not like what her fellow knights know of her feelings, but does not bother to try and hide them now. “Perhaps he shall stop and be gallant for some lost maiden, and the whole company will be delayed.”

 

“They would not be _long_ delayed,” Gwynsen says helpfully. “Artorias will help her and be on his way. His is a rare breed that accepts his thanks in the form of tokens and song.”

 

Ciaran barks out a short laugh, and does a brief dipping bow to her prince and captain. “True indeed. And now I must go.” She turns back for the barest moment. “Give the old dragon my regards.” And then she is gone.

 

Gwynsen waits for only a moment. “She is one of yours, captain,” he says. “...And she did not see. I am sure I would have noticed her.”

 

Yes, Ornstein realizes: he _is_ angry with him. Gwynsen's words are true enough, for he feels a spark of friendship with Ciaran, but he knows not of the depth of her devotion to Gwyn. One thing he knows for certain is that she is a shadow and a spymaster, with a talent for appearing wherever secrets are concealed.

 

“Thou art becoming incautious,” he says only.

 

“It was poorly-done,” Gwynsen agrees, eager for a chance to redeem himself. A hand extends out, and Ornstein watches it suspiciously, but he feels that Gwynsen is only adjusting his long ponytail. “I am afraid thou hast put on thy helm too hastily,” Gwynsen says apologetically.

 

“ _Gods_.” Ciaran must have seen. It is her job to notice things. What must she be thinking even as they speak?

 

“I am sure my father arranges a feast for the knights of the caravan upon their return.” Gwynsen looks thoughtfully into the distance, a spark of something in his eyes. “I have been dwelling on the aftermath of the battle, how I left them alone around the fire so I could consort with my own misery. I should not have done so,” he concludes. “I will make it up to them and help my father with the arrangements for tonight.”

 

Ornstein raises an eyebrow, though he knows Gwynsen cannot see it. “I will try my best to make peace between us,” Gwynsen appends. “Though his _foolishness_ vexes me to no end.”

 

It is still such a strange thing to hear anyone refer to Lord Gwyn, Lord of Sunlight and King of the Gods, referred to in such a flippant and dismissive manner. But then, Gwynsen has made many blasphemies seem so inconsequential.

 

“In that case, I shall see thee tonight,” Ornstein announces, and makes a small, formal bow to his prince.

 

“Tonight,” Gwynsen promises, and they part.

 

* * *

 

His first order of business is to gather together the silver knights who have remained at Anor Londo. Unavoidably, many of them are on active patrol attending Gwyn or his children, so some will have to hear his words secondhand.

 

He knows they have all been informed on the losses on the battlefield, and many are actively in mourning, but he wishes to give them a more personalized account of what has happened, even though he does not remember the events himself. He has asked Gwynsen, and a few of the knights who rode with them to Anor Londo, for as many details of the fallen as they could remember, and has been etching them into his mind for much of the last week.

 

Perhaps he is not the best person to tell them, but he is the legendary dragonslayer of Anor Londo, and their former captain. He knows what that means to them.

 

The knights have questions. They do not ask them. He knows they have already likely heard this version of events from their returned fellows and understand there is a limit to his own knowledge. But they listen solemnly all the same, and bow deeply to their former captain. Before Ornstein has fully turned away, he sees a few of them reach out in gestures of comfort to their fellows.

 

_Will seeing the heads of the dead wyverns bring them peace?_ He wonders. _Will they feel that the blood spilled was worth it?_

 

* * *

 

Before he is aware, the sun is hanging low in the sky. Ornstein winces as the sensation works its way through his skin. His palms and chest are bare as he works the delicate magic, one of the few healing miracles he can perform. Twinges of pain flare up and fade. For the first time in a week, he breathes deep with ease, and it becomes a sigh of relief.

 

He has seen Gwynevere briefly this afternoon; the Sun Princess had seen him passing and offered him her talents at healing. (Seemingly word of his misfortune has traveled to her, too.) It was a great honor to even hear those words, but he could not accept. It is a difficult fact to bear, but time spent alone with the royal family makes him nervous in a way different from the way it once did. He is aware of his every gesture, his every word, wondering if they can sense the air of secrecy on him.

 

He sits up from the bed, dons his undershirt and chestplate once again, straightens his gauntlets, and finally puts on his helm, this time ensuring with a glimpse in the mirror that his red ponytail flows behind him with effortless grace. When he approaches his chamber door, he hears a great commotion outside.

 

The knight caravan is arriving. He steps to one of the great windows in the hall and peers out. Down in the royal city, he sees the distant motion of horses being led into stables.

 

Ornstein walks briskly down the sweeping corridors of Gwyn's keep, passing the grand hall, where he can see the flutter of servants preparing every detail of the upcoming feast. At the other end of the massive room he catches sight of Gwynsen, looking luminous as he gestures broadly to an enraptured servant. Ornstein takes in the sight for a moment, and then keeps walking.

 

What he does not expect to see next is the sly, hunched-over form of none other than Knight Artorias as he attempts to sneak through the halls, carrying some unknown burden in his arms. His tall, lanky form only looks comedically exaggerated, taking up even more space than usual. In that moment Ornstein knows something new about his friend, who has never hidden from a battle: Artorias is about as stealthy as a fang boar.

 

“Artorias,” he calls, and the knight straightens up to see his fellow. “It is good to see thee, but-”

 

“Captain, pray help me,” Artorias calls in such a pitiful voice that Ornstein quickens his steps. “Artorias, whatever is-”

 

He sees now the bundle that Artorias carries in his arms, and stops in his tracks.

 

“ _Artorias_ ,” comes Ciaran's voice, from somewhere further beyond, and Artorias looks pleadingly at Ornstein again. Then the Lord's Blade turns a corner and comes across them. “Thou shouldst listen to me,” Ciaran implores sternly, brandishing one of her tracers in a slightly worrying way. “It is not a mercy, what thou art doing. Mine will be quick.”

 

In Artorias's arms, the tiny, matted, sick-looking pup turns over, weakly. There is no doubt about it: it is a wolf. “Ciaran is right, Artorias,” Ornstein decides. “Thy heart is gentle, but this beast is surely too sick to survive. It suffers, see.”

 

“Please,” Artorias presses. “I know what thou sayest! But I believe the night's passing will decide her future or end it. Thy mercy would be swift, Ciaran,” he agrees. “But I feel it is not to be so.”

 

Ornstein inclines his head at Ciaran, willing her to put the blade away. She pockets it. “Who shall care for it during Lord Gwyn's feast?” the knight captain asks.

 

Artorias looks at him as though he has grown a dragon's head. “It shall be me. It has to be. I will have to make apologies to Lord Gwyn. For now, pray tell him I am very weary from travel.”

 

Ornstein knows it can all be smoothed over, but something remains ironic of the fact that Lord Gwyn's most outstanding knight is now, in a literal sense, the type to bring home a stray dog and ask for leniency after the fact. He lets Artorias pass by on his way to his rooms. Ciaran stands there with arms crossed, her body language conveying the unhappiness that her masked face cannot.

 

“Hast thou rested?” Ornstein asks, to change the topic.

 

“Yes, captain.”

 

“And what of Gough? I have not seen him today.”

 

“He will be present tonight, I am sure of it.” Ciaran waves away his question. “He is just arrived from the mountain this evening, and travel stokes his appetite.” Every so often, Gough retreats to the forested peaks around Anor Londo for a day or two. He says the quiet helps him focus, and offers no other explanation. It is convenient for Ornstein, and all of them, that Lord Gwyn allows a certain amount of eccentricities for his knights of exceptional talent. That, and Gough is still able to perform his craft of dragonslaying from any grounds around the castle, should threats arise.

 

“And wilt thou?”

 

“Lord Gwyn would surely bristle to be missing half his knights,” Ciaran huffs. Ornstein gets the distinct impression he was right to suspect she is upset at Artorias for skipping out tonight. “Come, captain. Let us greet our lord and his guests.”

 

* * *

 

The grand hall is alight with fire, life, laughter and music. The entire party, including Lord Gwyn himself, stand at attention as the massive heads of the slain wyverns are wheeled in as centerpieces. A raucous cry goes up among the lord's party, and then, the dancing and feasting begins.

 

Gwyn's elites stand their silent vigil as the rank-and-file knights and noble guests take their seats and dig into the great heaps of meat, wine, bread and corn that pile high on each long table. Ornstein knows, as Ciaran, and Gough surely do, that their function here is decorative, but soon, they will be able to take their places among the nobility as they please – or the knights if they so choose, which is often the case when Artorias is with them.

 

Gwynsen sits apart from his father and siblings: while each of them looks resplendent at the head of the great raised table, naturally radiant, the elder prince has chosen the company of a few of his select favorite warriors. Ornstein sees an empty space beside him and cannot help his pleasure at knowing he has been saved a seat. His mind, however, has been idly fidgeting with the memories of a strange conversation he has overheard earlier. He had been standing in the crowd and trying to be composed as Lord Gwyn had regaled his guests with the bravery of his firstborn and his knight versus the imposing great wyverns.

 

“He has given it to me himself.” Two well-dressed young maidens had stood somewhere to Ornstein's left side, and one of them was showing her friend a treasured token, a gift from the Prince of Sunlight.

 

_Who is she?_ he had asked himself, not knowing her face. Surely another humble girl from court vying for the attentions of an oblivious god, but what if there was more? _A bride hand-picked by Lord Gwyn?_ his mind produced, anxiously. _Or... could Gwynsen have another lover?_ But as soon as this thought occurred, he'd known it could not possibly be true. The prince simply could not have enough hours in his day to spread them out between all his duties and the lover he already had. _And he certainly has me often enough._

 

He snaps back to the present, realizes that at last the time has come for him and his fellows to seat themselves. The prince is making eye contact with him, hailing him over with a sweep of his great goblet, and Ornstein makes his way over, pulling the helm off of his head as he moves to take the seat beside Gwynsen.

 

Immediately some wine is provided, which he takes gratefully. “Ah, my knight,” Gwynsen greets, clapping him on his metal-clad back. “We were just recalling the tales and misfortunes of poor old Sir Cloysius, who is unfortunately no longer here to defend himself.” And the knights all launch into fond and frivolous stories about their old comrade and his legendary penchant for embarrassing mishaps. Ornstein knows one or two that he thinks maybe no one but Gwynsen has heard before.

 

The drink continues. The night grows long, and some of their comrades grow increasingly loud and much more insensible. Ornstein is realizing he is having to shout to be heard over the din. However, from his spot at Gwynsen's side, he can hear the prince's every word.

 

He decides to take advantage of this, when the other knights are occupied laughing and crying themselves silly over another story that no longer makes any sense to him. “My prince, I am wondering if thou hast an admirer,” he inquires privately, angling his cup lazily at Gwynsen.

 

Gwynsen's eyes scan their surroundings for the barest moment, then he smiles. “Hmm, perhaps. Where hast thou heard that?” The mischief in his eyes mean he can only think Ornstein is playing a game, the knight realizes.

 

“I have witnessed a young girl in the crowd waving about thy token,” Ornstein informs him. Gwynsen's face is blank, uncomprehending for a moment. Despite himself, Ornstein cannot help but feel a twinge of pity for the poor girl. _As I suspected, I need not have worried._ Then the prince's face breaks into a wide, delighted smile as understanding dawns. “I am surprised thou dost not recognize her, Ornstein,” he teases with a wink, and lowers his voice even more, so that his knight feels the words rather than hears them: “for I do believe she has tinkered with thy insides more intimately than even I.”

 

Ornstein ignores Gwynsen's outrageous tongue to focus on his individual words. Recognition breaks: she must have been one of the healers who had saved his life on the battlefield. “I impressed upon her my gratitude for her deeds towards my first knight. I doubt thou canst even prick thyself, now, afore she comes running,” Gwynsen continues.

 

“That was manipulative,” Ornstein says, but he cannot fight the sly smile that appears over his features. The wine must be working well tonight. “And besides,” he adds in a voice barely above a murmur, feeling uncharacteristically wicked, “thou knowest I can handle more than a prick or two.”

 

At these words, Gwynsen whoops so loud that they briefly draw the attention of uncomprehending knights across the table, no doubt dying to hear whatever bawdy joke has just been told. “Ah, thou art a treasure beyond imagining,” Gwynsen mutters appreciatively as he shamelessly reaches to pour them more wine.

 

Another course appears, then sweet puddings and pastries, and still the night wears on. One of their comrades has slumped over in his seat at the table, and another is mumbling to him as if he is still awake. Ornstein can feel the beginnings of a pleasant tingle in his fingers and toes, and he cannot stop thinking that his prince looks too beautiful to touch, but he longs to touch him regardless. A shard of sanity thankfully still remains in him, but still his leg keeps folding out to bump Gwynsen's own, and still he looks at him even when he has stopped talking.

 

Suddenly, he is aware that the room is fallen silent. He sees several eyes on their table, and feels a small bolt of confusion before seeing that Gwynevere is risen from her seat, her cup in her hand. “-and to my brother Gwynsen, the Prince of Sunlight, and to Sir Ornstein, my family's most trusted knight and captain. Thanks to him and his devoted knights, our time is safeguarded a little more from the last vanguard of the dragons.”

 

A ribald shout goes out amongst the gathered men. In every eye, Ornstein sees exaltation and rapture.

 

“Thank you, my honored sister,” Gwynsen replies, raising his cup back at her, as Ornstein himself stands and makes a brief bow. “It was your miracles who enabled so many to be saved.”

 

Ornstein mirrors Gwynsen's gesture, now. “We drink tonight in honor of those who gave their lives for our mission,” he recites dutifully, taking care to properly enunciate his words.

 

All present now raise their glasses on high, and the roar is deafening. Ornstein sees Lord Gwyn incline his head gently towards his daughter as she sits back down beside him, pleased.

 

Ornstein's mind is dulled at the edges, but he can see that many of the knights here are used to drinking to excess, and the celebrations show no signs of flagging. Fresh cries of joy and laughter rise up among them. More flagons change hands. The beginning of friendships and rivalries are brewed in the drink.

 

He remembers noting the late hour as he rises to excuse himself, hearing the eager strides behind him in the hallway as he nears the door to his quarters.

 

* * *

 

Ornstein forces in shallow gasps as Gwynsen edges back slowly, unlinking their bodies. From the place where they were joined, he feels the sudden sensation of the cooler night air, and the hot trickle of his prince's climax.

 

He pulls one leg up, folding his knee so that his heel braces against his backside, enjoying the stretch of his muscles. Gwynsen falls to the bed beside him, accidentally bringing Ornstein towards the dip he has created in the mattress.

 

His skin feels oversensitive, overexposed, too warm, and the air in this room too cool. Groggily, he reaches out to pull at one of the sheets, filament-thin and hopelessly soft, and drapes it across his body.

 

They have ended up in Gwynsen's chambers again, after concern that Artorias, his quarters so near to Ornstein's own, may be too awake and too alert. Gwynsen's room is an expanse; though candles burn, and moonlight streams in from outside, parts of its stone walls are swallowed up by shadows. He feels as though they drift alone on this bed, apart from the rest of the world.

 

“What shall we do when the dragons are gone?” Gwynsen asks abruptly, after they have lain there simply breathing for a few minutes.

 

It is a strange topic for pillow talk, but this is hardly unusual among them. Ornstein gives him a sidelong look. “Perhaps it shall be only feasts all the time,” he speculates, carelessly. He hasn't considered the question much, to be honest. There always seemed to be no end to dragons, and every time they think they emerge victorious, a new breed of them crops up. Even the true dragons were not all dead, but lay in wait, scattering and entrenching themselves.

 

“How boring that will be,” the prince laments. “I suppose the humans will resume their petty conflicts, but wars for things such as ideals are messy; there is no glory in them.”

 

“Why then do we wage war?” Ornstein presses, turning to face his prince now, propping up his head with one elbow. “...if it is not for the promise of peace?”

 

“Art thou not concerned thou wilt be left a dragonslayer with no dragons?” Gwynsen counters, slyly.

 

“...I am more than just a dragonslayer.” But as he says those words, he cannot forget how this talent is the one that has led to this life in the first place: a life spent in the glory of the royal family, sharing their trials as well as their comforts. _If not for the dragons, I would be just another anonymous knight in the unending service of the gods_ , he thinks. As captain he had tried his best to make this duty a noble one for the soldiers, but had he succeeded in doing so?

 

Suddenly, Ornstein's whole body shudders and convulses as he feels Gwynsen's hand on him, stroking him underneath the sheet. “My prince, I am _spent_ ,” he cautions him shakily, his voice a croak, and Gwynsen laughs, and does not stop.

 

The sensation is dizzying, discomforting, pain and prickles of pleasure fighting for dominance. Ornstein writhes, braces his feet against the bed, tries to throw off Gwynsen's grip on him, but the prince holds firm, leaning over and capturing Ornstein's mouth with his own. The knight's protests are swallowed up, and in no time at all he is being pulled back to the brink, his mind further lost into the sweltering haze.

 

* * *

 

It is warm. Ornstein struggles with his vision, blinks, sees his body draped in a sunbeam. His mind staggers, and just as he is grappling with consciousness, he realizes he is making eye contact with a horrified servant.

 

The woman bows, makes a brief and stammering apology under her breath, scoops up a few things she had set down, and exits, leaving Ornstein alone in his room.

 

In Gwynsen's room.

 

Suddenly his heart is pounding, catching up with the facts of reality as he perceives them. He has slept past the dawn, and he is alone, and a servant has just seen him sacked out naked in the Sun Prince's bed.

 

After a few stunned moments biting down on these new realities, he rises swiftly, ignoring the pounding in his head. He cannot panic, he realizes as logic sets in. There are servants in the keep whose entire lives are spent in a narrow sphere of revolution around the deity whom they serve. There are likely plenty of them who would not even recognize him by his face, only by his distinctive leonine armor.

 

The armor which is currently lying haphazardly on the floor.

 

He curses himself loudly, curses Gwynsen for not waking him, curses a few other things for good measure.

 

Still – _still_ – panicking will only make the situation worse. He combs his hair neatly, ties it up after a few unsteady attempts, splashes water on his face from the basin by the door, dons his underclothes and his golden armor.

 

Just as he is opening the door, trying his best to look as though he emerges from official business, he crosses paths with the prince himself, who sees him and beams, until Ornstein removes his helm again – his face will let him communicate the story in fewer words.

 

When he has explained what has happened-- “I told her not to come,” Gwynsen says, frowning mildly. Ornstein wishes they were sparring, so he could strike him.

 

“Why didst thou not wake me?” he asks, despairingly. “Alas now – this is getting out of hand. We cannot continue like this. It would be madness--”

 

Gwynsen puts a hand on his knight's chest, steadying him, a look of mild alarm on his face. “There is no need for talk like that! I will handle it. How didst thou sleep?”

 

Ornstein shoots him a furious look. “Handle it _how_ , my prince?”

 

“Completely and utterly,” Gwynsen says with such finality that Ornstein gets a feeling of dread in his gut.

 

“That is vague,” he accuses.

 

“I am thy prince. I tell thee to worry not,” Gwynsen commands, looking indignant now. “I promise I will not harm her, if thou needst that confirmation. Now speak no more of this.”

 

Ornstein puts his helm back on, and they do not speak at all on their way out of the hall. He bites down an unbidden emotion, because it is one unfit for a knight.

 

* * *

 

It does not do to dwell, so the knight captain does not let the unpleasantness of this morning keep him from running his duties.

 

His first matter of business is to see Gough. The archer is back in his usual enclave, studiously carving his great arrows, sparing only a glance at Ornstein as he enters.

 

“It is good to see thee sleeping in, for once,” the giant remarks, evenly.

 

From Gough, it is only a friendly observation, not a jab. Like all of Gwyn's elite knights, he takes his job seriously, but he has always seen profound significance in being allowed to do things at one's own pace. Ornstein had tried explaining a number of times that keeping a schedule suits him just fine, even if it is rigorous.

 

He eyes the large pile of arrows with surprise. He knows from experience Gough likes to craft a number of arrows in the morning, and fire them all off one-by-one in the reddening hours of dusk, until the pile is whittled down to nothing.

 

“Thou must have risen before the dawn,” he observes, incredulous.

 

“Indeed, captain,” Gough acknowledges, “but tis my preference.”

 

The same cannot be said for the main regiment of silver knights. Although they run their guard duties at all of their appointed times, he can see them moving between duties staggering as if in a dream.

 

He turns into an alcove and sees a familiar form. “Artorias,” Ornstein ventures.

 

The knight glances up at his visitor, his eyes ringed and tired. “Ah, captain,” he greets, sounding faded. “...How was the feast? Ciaran's versions of events... may be somewhat unique.”

 

“What had she to say?” Ornstein asks, not surprised in the least to hear that Ciaran has visited Artorias over the night, though the fact that Artorias makes no attempt to conceal it confirms that his honor is as intact as ever, so to speak. “I thought perhaps she was weary still, and would have preferred more rest to an evening of festivities.”

 

“It is as you say,” Artorias says, smiling just slightly, “I have heard all the whispers and tales. I do not think she can help observing the actions of others. It would be easy to think she spent the whole night interrogating the silver knights about their personal scandals and love affairs, instead of, ah, only sitting there listening.”

 

Ornstein starts. He had not seen the wolf pup and assumed it had not survived the night, but when Artorias angles his shoulders just the slightest bit, he can see it resting easily between his arms, lapping at his uncovered fingers.

 

“Thou hast a new charge,” he observes, steadily.

 

Artorias turns to look at him. “Gough knows of a family who keeps wolfdogs by the edge of the city. One has just had pups. She will be well-reared there.”

 

Ornstein is relieved to hear that this particular folly will soon be resolved. “I am glad,” he says honestly. “Hast thou given her a name?”

 

“I believe I had best not,” Artorias says, with such solemnity that it is a little bit charming, “Perhaps I will go see her... though I do not know if she will remember me once she is grown.”

 

“And hast thou slept at all?” Ornstein interrogates him now, looking at the sorry state of him. “Thou knowest thy time is not truly thine own. We work in the service of Lord Gwyn. The circumstances do not matter-”

 

“Believe me, captain,” Artorias interrupts him, uncharacteristically bluntly. “I do understand what my duty is as a knight.”

 

Ornstein beholds him a moment, uneasy. There is something in Artorias' voice he had not expected to hear, but he can not identify it. It is not quite defensive, instead it is... proud. He knows Artorias aims to be the very picture of a knight from the songs and legends. But part of that- _ordinarily_ \- is the paramount respect he has for his captain.

 

It is still strange, but Ornstein needs to chalk it up to Artorias's weary state. It won't do to puzzle over it now. “Bring the pup to these friends of Gough, and then resume your duties,” he commands. “Thou art to retire early tonight.”

 

“Of course,” Artorias accedes, quietly, and turns his back on him.

 

* * *

 

 

When Ornstein makes his way down to the accuracy range, he hears the crackle of lightning before he sees the Prince of Sunlight.

 

There are a few of Gough's greatarchers here, but the focus is all on their young lord. He lunges forward with his swordspear, and great arcs of lightning traverse the air. The targets shatter in unison. There is no cheering: the soldiers do not cheer for Gwynsen anymore. They only watch in awe, trying not to throw off his concentration, afraid to break the spell.

 

Wordlessly, Ornstein arrives to stand beside one of the archers, watching the prince spin and whirl in a way that suggests weightlessness. It is a captivating display, like watching a dancer dance, or a sculptor sculpt, for no one understands destruction as Gwynsen does. As he watches, the other soldiers around him one-by-one properly notice his own presence.

 

Gwynsen notices him as well, rising back up from a kneel in the middle of the ring, his weapon in hand. “My first knight approaches,” he observes, a certain challenge in his gait, and Ornstein steps forward. “What sayest thou, captain?” he calls. “Art thou in the mood for a live target?”

 

Ornstein takes a step forward, his spear raised and at the ready. “Anytime, my prince,” he answers.

 

The electric tension in the air is charged. Ornstein senses, rather than sees, additional soldiers join them on the grounds to watch. Owing to the campaign against the wyvern nest, it has been some time since he and Gwynsen have gotten to properly spar like this.

 

Ornstein crouches, then lunges forward, stealing the first move. Gwynsen deflects the blow with his swordspear and tries to leverage Ornstein's weight to send the knight flying, but the captain is too quick, dancing out of Gwynsen's reach and getting in a quick jab with his spear.

 

Gwynsen does not let this sit. He goes on the offensive, making a whirling lunge at Ornstein with the full heft of his weapon. They trade blows like this, bartering a balance between agility and pure power. A swing of the swordspear finally hits its mark, and Ornstein is knocked flat on his back in the dirt.

 

Gwynsen only stands, then, shifting his weight, allowing his knight to jump back to his feet and ready his weapon again. In a real fight, though, he knows the outcome would already be decided. When they both use the dragonslayer spear, Ornstein's mastery of it is always superior, but he cannot contend with the fearsome combination of Gwynsen and his swordspear. The God and his weapon were intended for each other. Together, they are an unstoppable force.

 

Their match continues on. Ornstein gets a few glancing blows off Gwynsen's armor, and one thrust hits true, but his weapon does not boast as much power without the advantage of lightning he usually has. At one point, he executes a dodge from under a particularly fearsome overhead strike and manages to flank Gwynsen in mid-swing, tapping him under the armpit with his spear to suggest what he might have done in a real battle.

 

Gwynsen drops his swordspear, then, letting it clatter to the ground with a resounding noise. Ornstein rests the end of his spear on the ground, kneeling before his prince to signify their truce. “Now we have both died once over already,” Gwynsen announces. “Well-fought, my knight.”

 

Sweating and sore, they sit together on the sidelines as the greatarchers line up to practice their craft and the steel clash of swords echoes throughout the air. “As always, I am glad thou art on our side,” Gwynsen muses.

 

“Thou hadst me prone on the ground within minutes,” Ornstein points out.

 

“Yes, and it is only having thee to practice with that I can thank for that,” the prince responds, naturally.

 

They both pause to watch two halberd-wielding knights wheel around each other in a flurry of swings, blocking each others' blows so easily it looks to be second nature. Neither of them needs to voice their comments to each other. _Good. Excellent. No, slow. But they will improve._

 

Finally, Gwynsen says, “Worry no more about the servant girl who troubled thee this morning. And before thou askest what actions I have taken: Gwyndolin has purged her incriminating memories.”

 

Ornstein is all shock. “Gwyndolin has that power?” he asks, stunned. Gwynsen nods, simply.

 

“He does not like to use it, but it is one of the things he practices under the direction of my father. It is something to do with his skill at magic and illusions.” He gestures vaguely, absently, towards nothing in particular. “And to answer thy next question,” he continues. “no one knows of this ability but myself, my father and sister, Seath, Ciaran... and now thee too.”

 

Ornstein stops to digest this. He has never heard of a power like this before. He supposes, suddenly, that the reason Ciaran knows is because it must be useful to her craft. Perhaps the other Lord's Blades have an idea, as well. They are an incredibly mysterious group; they do not mingle freely with the other squadrons, and even if a person managed to speak to a Blade alone, one could not even ask her a question without revealing to her too many things about oneself.

 

“And what... didst thou tell him, to justify this request?” Ornstein asks, dreading the response.

 

“That Sir Ornstein told me he had found himself in a compromising position this morning, and wished it erased from knowledge,” Gwynsen answers.

 

Ornstein waits for some indication that it is a joke. But a second passes, and it does not come. “ _That_ is what thou toldst him?” he repeats, hollowly. “I expected thee to have a clever lie waiting for him.”

 

“I cannot lie to Gwyndolin,” Gwynsen says, apologetically, “but I am sure he has no idea that I was implicating myself in it. And now he thinks thou art indebted to him for helping to cover some gravely regretted conduct. I do think he likes that.”

 

So Gwynsen has revealed half the shameful truth to Gwyndolin, and leveraged his younger brother's regard for him to do it! Ornstein does not know how it could get any more humiliating. “If it helps,” Gwynsen begins, fighting back another wicked smile whose edges are barely visible over his scarf, “it is highly likely he thinks something along the lines of, that thou succumbed to a morning's drunken sickness and vomited outside our lord father's rooms, or something to that effect.”

 

It is, perhaps, little better, but it helps. “I suppose it is done now,” the knight sighs, “but I will make thee promise thou shalt always wake me before dawn from now on, if thou shouldst rise before me.”

 

“It is a promise,” Gwynsen proclaims, and they sit a while longer as the sounds of loosed arrows and locked swords echo in the courtyard.

 

* * *

 

The prince has decided to prepare for his audience with Seath by studying up about curses, and learning a bit more about soul sorcery from his brother. Ornstein runs drills with his silver knight spearmen until they no longer seem sluggish from their night of feasting and boozing. When at last they break, he heads to his quarters to retire.

 

He hasn't slept in his own bed in weeks, he realizes – in the two days since returning from the field, he has wound up in the prince's room by the night's end. But he knows he has missed the familiar give of his own mattress; simple, and not too firm nor too soft.

 

The golden knight is not even finished removing his armor, though, when he hears a familiar rapping on his door.

 

“Artorias?” Ornstein ventures, cracking open the door, beholding his fellow knight standing there in the hall outside.

 

“Captain, I hope I haven't woken thee.”

 

Artorias still does not announce the reason for his visit. Ornstein shifts uneasily. “Well, what business is it?” he asks, hopefully not too irritably, but he is tired.

 

“I was going to apologize,” Artorias begins, “for making use of thy... washbasin.”

 

Ornstein fumbles through those words again, individually, but still they do not make sense. He turns his head around, and sees that indeed, his washbasin has been moved out of his room. “Why hast thou borrowed it?” he questions, feeling dumb for participating in this exchange.

 

“Sif went through a rough patch early this morning,” Artorias replies, not bothering to clarify who Sif is, although Ornstein realizes he must mean the wolf pup. _He did name it after all_ , he thinks without a trace of surprise. “Already she had soiled mine... the healers have emphasized the importance of a clean basin when dealing with the sick and wounded-”

 

“Have a servant return it in the morning,” Ornstein interrupts, waving his hand to clear away this exchange. “Now, if that will be all-”

 

“I came to borrow it a few hours before the dawn,” Artorias continues, unheeding. “Thou didst not answer my knock, but still I came in. Thou wert not in thy bed, which I did not find surprising because of the feast, but when I returned to Ciaran, she thought it was curious, because thou hadst left the party with the prince several hours before.”

 

Artorias simply stands there, leaving the naked truth in front of them. It is not an accusation. It is not even a question. But he is meant to answer for it, Ornstein realizes. Artorias will not leave until he hears it direct from his lips.

 

His mouth is dry. He looks his friend dead in the eye.

 

“Go back to thy room, Artorias,” he orders in a low voice, daring him to disobey a direct command from his captain. Artorias looks at him for several more long seconds, and then turns to go. It is painfully clear from the look on his face that he got the answer he came for.

 

“Good night, captain,” he says, and disappears into his own chamber.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> coming soon: The Plot Happens (laugh) Thank you again for reading+reviewing!


	3. Dragonslayers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwynsen arranges a meeting with Seath. A plan is formed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading/commenting! You add fuel to my writing fire.
> 
> Upped the rating to be safe.
> 
> (maybe belated) warning for some antiquated gender role stuff, though not prominently!
> 
> (also one more belated note, I am using "thou" for singular you and "you" for plural you. From what I read I think this is accurate! But who cares, grammar, like lore, is ephemeral)

 

* * *

 

It has been a night of spotty sleep, but Ornstein is alert now. Gwynsen had come to see him just after dawn, explaining that the hour has come to see the duke. The prince must have felt it in his bones and decided it was time to act – as was his way.

 

They do not come across anyone on their path, except the silver knights carrying out their patrol duties. If the knights are curious about their determined stride so early in the morning, they do not display it in their gait or countenance.

 

The duke's archives loom high out of the morning mists. The building's halls have been built broad, large enough to accommodate a skittering dragon, but of course, that architectural detail is no uncommon thing in Anor Londo. (Ornstein idly wonders how many everlasting dragons could fit into Lord Gwyn's great hall.) He has not been here in some time, and while he expected to find it different, he certainly isn't expecting _this_.

 

“My prince,” he begins, unable to keep the question to himself, “why are there so many... crystals?”

 

Gwynsen looks all about them as if he hasn't noticed, then cocks a shrug. “He has had a centuries-long fascination with that primordial crystal. Maybe it is only a decorative choice.” They both know it isn't, but distantly, Ornstein appreciates that he can remain so unconcerned, or at least pretend to it.

 

He and Gwynsen ascend via an elevator and exit into a small study that feeds into the main body of the library. From within the expansive room beyond, they hear the echoing rasps of the dragon's breathing long before they approach the doorway.

 

The library is a marvel: it is wide-open and gargantuan, and its rotating staircases, even when stationary, give it a feel of whimsy and strangeness. And then, to complete the picture, there before them is none other than Duke Seath himself. The notorious paledrake lies sprawled across the great marbled floor, his wings adrift in the air above him as if they were made of gossamer. His head lounges on a pile of books as one of his channelers lurks off to one side, murmuring something to the dragon faintly and incomprehensibly. As soon as they set foot into the library, the duke's head turns, and the channeler retreats somewhere out of sight.

 

“And who is that? Smells like the blood of Lord Gwyn...” drawls the great dragon, shifting his weight and leaning ever nearer. “And indeed it is,” he appends, “but today it is the elder prince, and an armored attaché. I hear thee, Dragonslayer,” he hisses, “and I can sense the fragments of the Lord Soul within both of you.”

 

The paledrake is risen now on his forelegs, and swings his neck towards them until his head lurks uncomfortably close. “It has been a while since I have had a visit from one besides your brother Gwyndolin,” the dragon muses, his voice a tingling rasp.

 

“It has been an age, indeed,” Gwynsen acknowledges. “I hope thou wilt pardon thine unexpected guests.”

 

The dragon draws so near to the prince now that he can only be studying him, Ornstein realizes, making out what shapes his failing vision can muster. After a moment, though, the duke's attention slowly shifts towards Ornstein himself, and the knight tries not to react as Seath appears to take a deep sniff of the air surrounding him. “Hmm, _that's_ new,” the dragon adds, slyly.

 

Neither he nor the prince have the time or inclination to puzzle out what that means. “Duke Seath,” Gwynsen calls out. “We do not mean to infringe upon thy time. We have arrived only with a few questions and a request for an audience. Wilt thou grant it? In the spirit of friendship.”

 

“As always, thou speakest prettier than Lord Gwyn,” Seath growls, his smooth skin appearing to glitter dangerously in the low light, “but I know thine intentions will be plainer. Speak now! For as thou hast seen, I am very busy!”

 

That fact had, in fact, not been apparent to either of them, but Gwynsen takes the cue anyways. “Thou must have heard of the emergence of these draconic subraces, dragonkin such as the wyverns and drakes,” he begins.

 

“Not a question,” Seath hisses at them, “but indeed. _Pah!_ They are like I was, once: flicking away their insignificant lives like beasts under the open sky.” He angles his head at Gwynsen, now, though he surely cannot see him anymore from this distance. “And I hear thou toilst away making war against them. A pitiful waste of time.”

 

Gwynsen does not let himself show any offense to the remark. “Indeed. I am afraid we will soon tire of it.”

 

Though he doesn't dare speak, Ornstein's blood is hot. Many good lives have been sacrificed in their campaign against the encroaching wyverns; meanwhile, Seath, after committing treachery against his kin, expects to be rewarded and respected for all eternity, as he lives a luxurious life. Ornstein also cannot forget (much as he has shamefully tried) the ugly rumors he has heard: the abductions of young girls from the countryside by mysterious kidnappers, who, by eyewitness account, bear an unnerving resemblance to Seath's channelers. Without Lord Gwyn's command, there is nothing he as a knight can do.

 

Thankfully, the prince plays a better diplomat. “Of these creatures we know not much, and my lord father takes no interest beyond the slaying of them. Why have they come now, at this time, and what canst thou tell us of them?”

 

For Seath's part, he is making his distaste in the topic known. “Wherefore do I have such ugly cousins? I know not. Perhaps it is destiny that there will always be dragons left in the world.”

 

Ornstein can see the beginnings of frustration creeping onto Gwynsen's features, but thankfully, the duke seems unlikely to notice. “Hast thou any theories at all?” he presses. “My father and myself would like to focus on other matters, but so long as these _ugly cousins_ of yours keep terrorizing this land, I'm afraid we have an obligation.”

 

“I see not why,” Seath scoffs. “Thou hast thy grand fortress and spiraling keep, yet thou makest these constant forays into the unhappy world for some small shred of glory.” _Insolent dragon!_ Ornstein thinks, hatefully. How he wishes he could plunge his spear into the duke's opalescent hide and cut this talk short.

 

Gwynsen, meanwhile, looks thoughtful. “Dost thou believest it to be true, that there will always be dragons in the world?” he asks Seath, carefully.

 

“I am here, am I not!” Seath cackles. “But I know thou hast not finished _rounding up and killing_ the everlasting dragons, princeling! So long as the last remnants of their race secrets themselves away, I am guessing these nests that you hunt so adamantly will keep springing up.”

 

Ornstein looks sharply over at Gwynsen, who has a surprised look on his face.

 

“Thou might make good use of that dragonslayer, perhaps!” Seath crows, and picks himself wholly off the floor. “Now out! I have told thee what I care to tell.”

 

* * *

 

Ornstein expects Gwynsen to take the contents of their meeting with Seath straightaway to his father, but when they reach the entry hall to the keep the prince beckons for his knight to stand with him at the base of one of the staircases. The prince's face is alight with that excitement that Ornstein knows mostly on the battlefield. The enchanted sentinels ignore them as they pass.

 

“Give me thine thoughts, Ornstein,” Gwynsen urges. “I do not trust Seath and I suspect thou wilt say the same, but-”

 

“It may be an avenue worth considering, my prince,” Ornstein says, carefully. “Assuming we speak of the same thing: slaying the last holdouts of the everlasting dragons.”

 

For a long time now, their armies have focused on the threats posed by the wyverns and their drake brethren, new and famously troublesome creatures that they were. It has been an age since either of them has taken up a spear against the last primordial cousins of the duke, due to the scattered and hidden nature of them.

 

“I have been thinking,” Gwynsen says. “I said war would be boring once the dragons were dead, but perhaps I have not witnessed the new forms it could take. The duke is right. We have called it a dragonless age, but it is not truly. The drakes and wyverns... perhaps we are punished for our uncertain hand.”

 

The fire burning behind his features brings unbidden an image of a few nights past. _It was like cutting off my own head._ In that moment, Ornstein thought he was seeing sympathy for the dragons in Gwynsen's eyes, as he recounted the memory of slaying the wyvern crying out for its dead mate. _The response of the dragonkin was to mourn, and mine was to ruin and destroy._

 

“If thou seekest to ride out, find them, and kill them,” Ornstein breathes, “then thou must bring thy loyal dragonslayer.”

 

Gwynsen bellows a laugh. “So long as thou dost not find thyself caught in the jaws of a dying wyvern again, my knight.”

 

Ornstein feels his blood running hot again, as if from a direct challenge. “I shall never have such a moment's carelessness again,” he vows.

 

“That is a lofty goal,” Gwynsen acknowledges with a small smile. “But I shall hold you to it, at least while we wage war.”

 

* * *

 

Lord Gwyn is not told. Not yet. The prince has given his knight direct orders: to sniff out who would be best to take along on a dragon-hunting expedition.

 

Gough, of course, is out. Though he can knock a dragon out of the sky as easily as a boy might throw a stone, his last mount has been forced to retire early. _They still do not make horses big enough to seat giants_ , Ornstein laments, and the amount of ground they have to cover means that horseback is a necessity. It has also been understood as of late that in the event of an airborne attack on the castle, Gough would be an invaluable commodity to have.

 

Still, he can requisition some of Gough's hand-selected greatarchers. He watches them practice today, trying to train his eye on their movements so he can gauge the strongest of them.

 

“Ladh and Dunn are the most capable here,” comes Gough's thoughtful voice behind him, and Ornstein is simply too well-trained to jump from surprise. “I see thee watching them,” the giant continues, a smile present in his voice. “What mission does Lord Gwyn have in store?”

 

“There is no mission yet,” Ornstein replies, honestly. “I am only scouting. Point out to me Ladh and Dunn?”

 

Gough dutifully indicates two knights standing together at the end of the formation. One is tall, nearly as tall as Artorias in scale, while the other is thicker, shorter, and stouter. Both fire arrows almost as big as they are, with routine and near-flawless accuracy.

 

Ornstein watches them a while, observing their technique, although he is no archer himself. He has always made it a habit to study as much of the other disciplines as he can.

 

“I hope there is a hunt involved,” Gough says, unable to hide his underlying enthusiasm. “We are all sporting for a good kill.”

 

* * *

 

The spearmen, as always, are exquisite.

 

Ornstein knows their rhythms and patterns like the back of his hand. He does not know yet who among them is fit for a mission like this, so to take his mind off the decision he offers to spar with anyone who is willing. He makes note of the ones who jump up to meet the challenge.

 

“I would be honored to spar with thee, captain,” says one such knight. He is wielding a spear nearly twin to Ornstein's own, although his is considered standard issue. His enthusiasm is such that Ornstein cannot help but grin.

 

The knight lasts all of a few minutes under his captain's onslaught, but Ornstein is impressed. So are the other knights, he gathers, as he sees them openly appraising their fellow with wide-eyed looks.

 

The fellow bows deeply. His name is Engold, Ornstein knows, and he dutifully files away this encounter in his mind.

 

In the end, he spars with nine others, but none last as long as Engold. Still though, there are standouts.

 

“Thank you all for the fine sparring,” he says respectfully, addressing all of the present knights. He makes a note to learn as much as he can about the impressive ones whenever he gets a chance. _Talent does not equal levelheadedness when staring down a dragon_ , after all. He knows this fact well, after seeing a few too many of his brightest recruits frozen in place, staring down the oncoming siege of dragonfire.

 

* * *

 

The last he thinks to recruit is Artorias, but the knight is in none of his usual haunts.

 

“Captain,” he hears an amused voice call out, and turns to see Ciaran lurking in a shadow where she was not before. Ornstein bristles a bit. “Hast thou a moment to chat?”

 

_A moment to chat?_ Were it anyone else, he might be giving a very different answer. “Ciaran,” he greets. “What is on thy mind? Pray speak quickly.”

 

“I apologize, if I have given thee trouble with Artorias.”

 

Behind his helm, Ornstein's eyes widen, quickly. He has been trying all morning to keep his mind off of last night's visitation, but Ciaran has brought it all back to the forefront.

 

At last, he takes a deep breath and prepares himself for this conversation. It is inevitable, now. “How long hast thou known?” he utters, quietly.

 

“Twas well before catching the both of you in the corridor a few days back,” she remarks, airily. Ornstein winces. “But do not regret it. Few such affairs are conducted in this place without my knowing. For now, be assured that I hold thy secret to my own chest.”

 

“Yet twas no accident that thou let slip such a thing to Artorias!” Ornstein retorts, turning on her now. “I do not believe it.”

 

“Forgive me. There was a part of me that... I wished to see if such a liaison would even occur naturally to him.” Ciaran shakes her head. “Perhaps I saw him as too innocent. I did not know if he would even consider the possibility of his captain doing such a thing.”

 

“For curiosity's sake! _That_ is why thou toldst him, knowing it would set him against me?” Ornstein repeats, incredulously.

 

“He will conquer it,” Ciaran asserts, her voice deadpan. “Thou knowest he clings tightly to great ideals of duty for a knight. It is perhaps him alone in all of Lordran that holds his own post in such vaunted regard. Perhaps he shall see that, now.” There is a touch of bitterness in her now.

 

_Artorias and Lord Gwyn, perhaps. And myself, too, if I had not succumbed to my own desires,_ Ornstein thinks dreadfully. The thought casts a dark pall over his mood.

 

One of the things he's always admired and valued most about Artorias has been his friend's dedication to a knight's duty and honor. These things were often forgotten once one succeeded in becoming a knight, or at least waved away when the opportunity for a bit of debauchery presented himself. Ornstein himself had participated in more than his fair share of loutish behavior. But Artorias has always been a shining pillar. There is no doubt he would consider a sworn knight lying with a member of the royal family, who he was honor-bound to serve, a total dereliction of duty. He cannot imagine what his friend thinks of him now.

 

“Dost thou know where I can find him?” he asks, hoping to steer the conversation in a different direction. Ciaran makes a dismissive gesture.

 

“Perhaps he is gone to visit Sif,” she calls over her shoulder as she saunters away, and Ornstein finds himself groaning inwardly. _All concern for duty_ , he thinks, _except when it comes to some poor pitiful creature._

 

* * *

 

 

Two weeks pass. Ornstein has now approached Ladh, Dunn, and several of the other greatarchers in earnest. Engold and his fellow spearmen have also been given some indication of what may be in their future. He hears one of their number making a reference to themselves as future dragonslayers, and feels a measure of discomfort.

 

The captain has been surpassingly careful not to make any mention of _dragons_ in their presence, but they must be capable of connecting the dots. There is no doubt what their individual fighting styles are best adapted for. Engold puts Ornstein in mind of a younger version of himself: agile and sure-footed, bold when it is time to strike, but quick when it is time to dash out of harm's way. He might make a capable dragonslayer, if he does not die. That is the problem with finding good dragonslayers.

 

Soon, Gwynsen has broached the vaguest details of their plan with Lord Gwyn, and gotten his approval to begin training an elite force. With that, Ornstein finally lets the last of the veil fall away from their eyes.

 

“There is no use sidestepping around it, so I will be brief,” he begins, when they have all gathered in the wide-open courtyard that is to be their training grounds. “Yes. The challenge at hand is _dragons_.”

 

He had half-expected Ladh and Dunn to begin crowing to each other in victory – he has spent too much time with them over the last few weeks -- but thankfully, they are still well-trained soldiers. Every one of them only nods, earnestly, betraying no hint of any emotion, and Ornstein is glad.

 

“We shall meet here in the afternoons, until daybreak, every day until I tell you otherwise,” he commands. “Thou must come ready to give this task thy all. If any of you are not willing, step forward now and return to the ranks of thy brethren. You will not be mistreated for it.”

 

There is utter stillness. Ladh cannot help himself-- he inclines his head the smallest bit to peer at the other knights, perhaps seeing if any of them is tempted, but otherwise none of them moves an inch.

 

“Right,” Ornstein says, briskly, once the moment has drawn long. “Then from this moment on, you are all dragonslayers-in-training. We shall meet back here at this time tomorrow for our first session.” Then, at once, all of the knights shout in acknowledgment and bow.

 

It has gone honestly better than expected, and walking away, Ornstein hopes that is not some ill omen. Surely they must know what a dangerous task awaits them. They will have heard the stories of men boiling alive in their armor, never returning home to share another drink with their comrades. Perhaps it is an effect of seeing him standing there, a living legend clad in golden armor, seemingly unblemished from dragonfire. _I should not have tried so hard to hide the fact of my injury,_ Ornstein thinks suddenly. He wonders how many men know how narrowly he has survived a recent encounter with a wyvern.

 

It is no good. He has already grown protective of them. This is why he tries to maintain as much distance from his soldiers as he can manage without being cruel. Already he has lost so many. _If even half of them survive our first bout_ , he realizes grimly, _it will be a miracle beyond reckoning._

 

In the recent weeks, he has seen Artorias plenty, but it had been made clear early on that he will not be joining the ranks of their squadron – by Lord Gwyn. The Lord of Sunlight seems loathe to part with his most skilled knight, and besides, his fighting style is that which is suited for war against men. As for Artorias, he has been perfectly civil with Ornstein, almost cordial at times, but he can sense a wall there between them that was not there before.

 

* * *

 

“There is still time to consider this carefully, my lord,” Ornstein says, gently.

 

The lord in question is Gwyndolin, who is standing opposite him, holding the catalyst in his small, delicate hands. “I need no time for this, Sir Ornstein. It shall be perfectly easy,” the small lord boasts, and Ornstein cannot help an invisible smile.

 

“Thou hast seen the beasts up close, then?”

 

“...Not up close. But I have seen them quite clearly from a distant vantage point,” Gwyndolin sounds determined, proud. Ornstein is endlessly glad things have not been strange between them since Gwynsen's request involving the wayward servant girl, but he still tries to think of it as little as possible. “And I have seen the duke often enough.”

 

“Let us try not to train our future dragonslayers to hunt thy father's friend the duke.” _On second thought,_ Ornstein reassesses privately, he thinks that would be perfectly fine with him, and probably most of Lordran, if it came down to it.

 

They descend the steps to the courtyard, where the future dragonslayers in question are taken with one spectacle already: the Prince of the Sun himself, who stands easily among their number. _No doubt most of them have been to war at his side,_ Ornstein thinks, _but maybe not quite so close._

 

“Ah, brother,” Gwynsen greets brightly, as he sees Gwyndolin approaching. “And my trusted first knight. It seems we are ready to begin, now. I shall let thee take the reins.”

 

Ornstein steps to the front of the gathering, watching with a small measure of amusement as Gwynsen takes his place amongst the other knights, despite standing a head taller than even the towering Dunn. “As we stand here today, few of you are tested amongst real dragons,” he begins, catching as many of them in the eyes as he can. “So today, we shall practice.”

 

He sees a few of the knights subtly casting each other inquisitive looks. Ornstein beckons for Gwyndolin, and the small lord steps (well – slithers, rightly) forward. Holding his catalyst aloft, he concentrates as he is bathed in a blue light.

 

In the courtyard before them, materializing as if from thin air, sits a great stone dragon.

 

A few of the knights flinch. Ornstein can see Engold's spear twitching in his grip. _He longs to prove himself so badly,_ he thinks, glad that they all show restraint before he has given any orders. “But before you fight the beast,” Ornstein says, “you will have to shoot it out of the sky.”

 

He nods to Gwyndolin, and the small lord concentrates, and with a mighty beat of the beast's immense wings, impossibly, it is airborne, climbing higher and higher into the sky until it circles above them. _Gwyndolin has done an impressive job_ , Ornstein marvels. _It is practically real._ He hopes Gough has gotten the memo about the training exercise, and does not shoot it down himself.

 

“Archers, fire at will,” he commands.

 

The six greatarchers in their number immediately heed the command, lining up their bolts in perfect unison, before sending them sailing into the air. Ornstein watches them as they cascade towards their target.

 

All six are narrow misses. The dragon twists in the sky, pulling one of its wings out of the path of one of the arrows, and though he wears his helm Ornstein shoots Gwyndolin an impressed look.

 

Not wasting a beat, all six of them notch again, and this time, after a tense few moments of watching and waiting, one of the bolts strike true. It is a clean and brutal hit, taking the dragon right through the thigh and into its body. As if the beast were real, it utters a raw, painful, feral cry.

 

_Gwyndolin's talent for these illusions is beyond what I could have imagined,_ Ornstein thinks in astonishment, nearly forgetting to be impressed with the greatarcher for his achievement, whoever it had been. His gaze then shifts to Gwynsen, almost without knowing why, watching his prince's face for something as the anguished screams echo throughout the air.

 

_I hear the scream of the red wyvern. Like a dream... its agony is mingled with my own._

 

Ornstein comes back to the present, watching the knight next to Ladh give his fellow knight a slap on the back. “Good work, Ladh,” Ornstein barks quickly, shamed that he was not paying more attention. “But do not get complacent yet. You will have to engage it when it is on the ground!”

 

The greatarchers move in well-trained fashion, climbing to higher ground as the dragon's trajectory becomes clear. The knights brace themselves as it crashes to the ground – though they needn't have, for the illusion's body does not so much as blemish the weeds beneath it. Ornstein is surprised for a moment. He had nearly forgotten it was not real.

 

Rearing up, the false dragon issues a bellowing roar, and the spearmen knights take up fighting stances around it. “End it!” Ornstein shouts.

 

One of the knights dashes forward, his spear a blur as he plunges it towards a sliver of the dragon's exposed belly. Going for the kill right away, Ornstein observes, but the timing is not right. The dragon's tail is racing around and it catches the unsuspecting knight on the upswing, sending him barreling backwards against the dirt. The impact is real enough, and looks painful.

 

_Gwyndolin must be able to control how corporeal it is_ , he realizes. He feels another burst of awe. _His power is startling. Thank gods it is not turned against us._

 

Undeterred, two other knights ready their weapons from opposite sides of the dragon. Ornstein can see that they are attempting to work in tandem. Nells and Wheland are their names, and he is intrigued that neither of them attempts to seize the glory for themselves.

 

While Nells baits the dragon's wounded flank, Wheland strafes around its deadly jaws, angling for the killing blow, but he is having difficulty as it thrashes its neck back and forth in desperation. Illusory embers of dragon's fire dance around, brewing within the dragon's throat. Throughout all of this, Ornstein sees several openings he would have ventured himself, but his knights are exercising caution.

 

All but one. On the outskirts, Engold, the most capable of the spear knights, stands frozen, his spear clenched vice-tight in his hands. Ornstein knows that look: he has seen it many times in battle. It is the look of someone seeing fire directed at himself for the first time.

 

“Soldier!” comes the splitting, bellowing voice of the god of war beside him, and Ornstein starts. “Why dost thou hesitate?! Art thou a coward?!”

 

Engold seems to remember himself, casting a quick look at his prince and his captain, but his body is still stiff, his arms trembling. _He is not fit for this after all_ , Ornstein thinks with real disappointment. They are not even fighting a real dragon, and fear has him rooted to the spot. It is a pity, but he has learned by now that dragonslayers do not show their true worth until they face their first real foe.

 

Suddenly, with a scream that surprises all of them, Engold seems to force his body out of its locked state, and he makes a desperate charge towards the dragon, his spear raised recklessly above him as if he means to make a suicidal strike.

 

“What is he doing?!” Gwynsen demands, disgust in his voice as they watch the inevitable.

 

“He is afraid,” Ornstein says simply.

 

Rearing back on its hind legs, the dragon focuses its full attention on the startling form of Engold, before the overwhelming onslaught of dragon's fire bears down on him, the brilliant flames obscuring the once-proud knight from view.

 

At that moment, Nells and Wheland seize the opportunity. They plunge their spears into the dragon's hide and twist the way they have been taught. Gwyndolin's creature issues one last screech of agony, and then dissolves into nothing.

 

Ornstein walks towards the scene of the carnage, whose evidence has now all but totally faded away. The knights look haggard and drip with sweat, as if they have been sparring all morning. Their captain stops to stand beside Engold. The man is staring down at his palms, as if he can't quite believe that his skin has not blistered and cracked.

 

“Thou hast a fear of fire,” he observes, simply.

 

Engold does not turn to look at him right away, but when he does, there is real wildness in his eyes. “Pray, captain,” he begins, pleadingly. “I know not what came over me. Never have I disappointed thee before, have I? Thou hast seen me train-”

 

Ornstein shakes his head. “I admire thee for thy resolve,” he says, honestly. “But thou hast no business fighting dragons, whether they are real or imagined. Rejoin thy regiment, please, Sir Engold.”

 

Disbelief and sorrow wash over the soldier's face in turns. Stiffly, he bows. “Yes, captain.” And then he is making his way out of the arena.

 

Turning, Ornstein sees Gwynsen regarding him. He is standing with his younger brother, with one large hand clasped over Gwyndolin's shoulder as if steadying him. Frowning, the captain makes to join them.

 

“Didst thou dismiss him?” Gwynsen asks his own question first. Ornstein is still looking at Gwyndolin's face, scanning for traces of exhaustion.

 

“I had no choice,” Ornstein replies. “What he lacks cannot be taught or instilled. Some men cannot fight dragons.” Now he turns to Gwyndolin, eager to have his own question answered. “Was that too much for thee, my lord?” he asks, concerned.

 

“Twas nothing, Sir Ornstein, as I told thee,” Gwyndolin returns, but he does look a little faint, perhaps a little paler than normal. “Tellst me when thou wilt require mine services again.”

 

“We will focus on drills for a time,” Ornstein decides. He had been hoping to practice with the dragon every day, but Gwyndolin may need more practice conjuring an illusion of such scale and detail without overexerting himself. “I am surprised, to be honest,” he continues. “The dragon took blows as if it were a real creature, yet it did not disturb the ground when it fell. Thou canst control how real it is.”

 

“It is a limited ability. I must be close. And it saps me quickly.” Gwyndolin says the last bit too quickly, and seems to regret his use of words. “Twas a bit more complicated than what I have practiced with, recently, but I was glad for it,” he corrects.

 

“Why don't you take a rest, brother, and visit our sister?” Gwynsen suggests. “She can restore some of your strength.”

 

Gwyndolin considers the idea. He looks to Ornstein, then back to his elder brother. Maybe he does not wish to intrude any more in important military business, Ornstein thinks affectionately.

 

“Very well, brother. I will see Gwynevere. I do think she tires of the same old company, anyways.”

 

When Gwyndolin is gone, Ornstein turns to see Gwynsen gazing off into the distance, as if he is still watching him go. The captain turns to the other knights, who are standing at attention, waiting for an assessment, he realizes.

 

“Well done,” he says simply. “I was not expecting a dead dragon on the first attempt. But keep in mind it was an illusion only, and will not be the same as the real thing. We will resume tomorrow with more drills, and we will talk about real technique.”

 

He dismisses them then. The knights file out obediently, but he can see that they are pleased, a thrilled buzz humming through them. He watches them go, until it is only him and Gwynsen standing there in the arena. Sighing, Ornstein turns to his prince.

 

“I think they would have liked for thee to praise them a little, my lord,” he notes, a little teasingly. “No doubt they thought constantly of how thou watched them.”

 

Gwynsen still looks as though his mind is far-off, but he regards Ornstein after a moment. “Thou shouldst give him another chance,” he says at last, unexpectedly.

 

“When he is rested-”

 

“No. Thy knight, Engold.”

 

Ornstein flounders. Already he has filed Engold away and closed that book, so to speak. “The man is no dragonslayer,” he says simply. “And I have trained many of them.”

 

“So have I, hast thou forgotten?”

 

_No,_ Ornstein thinks, slightly shamefaced. It has been a long time since Gwynsen had commanded the ranks of the spearmen, though. His first knight is more easily suited for it, for he had risen up from the bottom of the ranks himself and has a strong natural sense of duty and order.

 

“Twas a disgrace what befell him today,” Gwynsen continues, “One that he shall remember for the end of his days. Without any chance to redeem himself, he will be nothing.”

 

“He will be alive and whole, I think,” Ornstein returns curtly.

 

Gwynsen cranes his neck at him as if intent on staring him down. His knight refuses to let himself be intimidated. “Thou wishest for thy knight a long life of shame and reflection on his failure,” the prince remarks, slyly. “Most cruel, Ornstein.”

 

“There will be many chances for glory that do not involve being possibly set on fire.”

 

“True, but what can possibly compare?”

 

Ornstein makes a sound, involuntary and undignified, as he feels a sudden pressure squeezing his backside. Gwynsen's hand moves away just as swiftly, as if the sound of Ornstein's mail clinking as it shuffles back in place does not betray him. _A menace, he is!_ There are no knights left here, Ornstein determines with a glance. He raises one arm and pushes Gwynsen into a small alcove where weapons are stored, so that they are more faithfully obscured.

 

“What is this?” the prince teases. “Has being a mere spectator to all the dragonslaying made you so agitated?”

 

“There is something I have not told thee,” Ornstein acknowledges. There have been a few opportunities to bring it up, while they were alone, but he had not been able to bear it. Gwynsen's eyebrows raise.

 

“I hope thou wilt not break my heart,” the prince murmurs. “My handsome knight... how all those strapping little soldiers must yearn after thee as I do.”

 

Ornstein ignores this taunt, primarily because he does not want to even begin to imagine that. “Artorias knows of this.” It is clear what is meant by _this_.

 

“Artorias?” Gwynsen looks genuinely a little surprised. “Hmm. Not the most observant type.”

 

It is scarcely a reaction of any kind. Gwynsen seems utterly unconcerned as his hands trace the tapered curve of Ornstein's breastplate, leading to the waist. “He must be envious,” the prince muses.

 

“Envious, of who?” Ornstein asks, sharply.

 

“Of course, envious of his fellow knight, for taking a less literal stance on honor.” Ornstein does not resist as Gwynsen, kneeling, eases his hanging tassets off his body, so that he can grip him around the hips more firmly. “Though he has a woman certainly willing, he has had only his own hand to satisfy himself, and then he learns thou hast been getting fucked to thy heart's content.” The prince is lifting his dangling mail out of the way, drawing tantalizing close to the most vulnerable part of his body. “It must make him mad.”

 

Ornstein groans then, half because Gwynsen's hand is fondling him through his smallclothes, and half because the image of Artorias he has been given is so thoroughly unwanted. From the prince's divine lips come so many profane things, and Ornstein feels his boundaries constantly tested. Suddenly, with a sharp inhale, he feels himself exposed to the open air, and stifles a ragged gasp as he feels Gwynsen's humid breath on him.

 

“My prince,” he starts, feeling conflicted about the sight he perceives in front of him (as best he can, with his helm still on), arousal beginning to cloud his better senses. The Prince of the Sun is on his bare knees in the dirt before him, while Ornstein stands fully-armored. _This is not how it should be_ , he thinks wildly, as if they have not already broken every boundary there is. It is not that he takes pride in having the woman's role, as it were, in their encounters, but how can it be otherwise when his lover is a Lord?

 

“Thou art maddening, my knight,” Gwynsen muses in a low tone, and takes him into his mouth.

 

* * *

 

The next several weeks are spent in a flurry of intense training. Despite Gwynsen's appeal, Ornstein does not allow Engold to rejoin them, nor does the knight come to request it. Instead the spearman merely carries out his normal duties. _It is a real shame_ , Ornstein catches himself thinking again, as he tries to coach Nells on balance. The other spearmen are skilled, but none of them have the same natural flair for footwork. _No matter._ It can be taught, and Ornstein will teach it.

 

“How do thine pupils fare?” Gough asks him one afternoon, as he tinkers with his greatbow in the hall outside the courtyard. Ornstein knows he means to ask about his own charges, as well, Ladh and Dunn and the others.

 

“They are all well-taught, and what they do not know, they learn quickly,” Ornstein replies, honestly. “They are learning to work as a unit, too. I think they will all become fine dragonslayers.”

 

“That is well,” the giant rumbles. “They have needed to see real action for a long while.”

 

Ornstein knows Gough grows restless here, and he cannot help feeling sympathy for him. The giant may be swift on foot with his long strides, but he cannot keep pace with horses who have been bred for stamina. Besides, Ornstein thinks, it is demeaning to think that a knight of Gwyn should have to run alongside the caravan while the rest of them are mounted.

 

He is idly thinking about the trouble of this as he retires to his room for the night. Carefully, he removes his armor a piece at a time, laying it out properly before stripping down to his underclothes.

 

It is the dead of night, and Ornstein is fast asleep, when the entire room trembles under his feet.

 

The sound is so deafening, it is as if the world itself means to split apart. Ornstein is fast out of bed, effortlessly awake, sparing a quick glimpse out the window in his chamber, but it affords him nothing. He is all haste as he dresses himself with mercenary promptness, ties his hair, puts the lion's face over his own.

 

When he makes his way up to the ramparts, he sees Lord Gwyn already there, attended by Artorias. The knight is all alertness; like Ornstein, he also gives no visible sign of having just scrambled out of bed. The three of them stand braced over the great stone walls of the keep as they keep their eyes trained on the horizon.

 

The silhouette, beating is great wings against the moonlight, is unmistakeable.

 

_Dragon_.

 


	4. Mettle / Beloved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here there be dragons.

 

* * *

 

_A dragon heads for Anor Londo._

 

Disbelief settles into Ornstein's bones as he considers the sight, for he knows two things right away, without a doubt:

 

The first is that this place, Anor Londo, the seat of Lord Gwyn, is the worst place in the world for any dragon to be.

 

The second is that the dragons are no fools.

 

_And yet they have expressly wakened us_ , he thinks, madly. Why? _Do they long for a quick death?_

 

He senses others at his back, now, as they all stand to watch the Lord of Sunlight lift his hand skyward and conjure what looks to be a bolt of pure sun. With a forward thrust of his arm, he sends it sailing through the night air.

 

The bolt glances off the hide of whatever approaches – and still it keeps coming.

 

“My Lord,” Ornstein addresses Lord Gwyn, urgently. “I shall gather my elite spearmen, who have been training to face dragons. We shall prepare in the event of a skirmish.”

 

Then he hears Ciaran's voice at his left shoulder. “Lord Gwyn, Gough sends word that his archers stand at the ready, and shall let loose as soon as the beast is in range,” she utters, breathlessly.

 

Gwyn acknowledges Ciaran, and without another word (only a wayward glance at her fellow knights), she scampers off. “Gather them now,” he commands Ornstein, and without even a bow, the knight captain trails Ciaran's steps down from the ramparts.

 

“Where dost thou go to?” he calls out to her, while they make haste down the steps.

 

“My Blades and I shall hole up with the princess,” Ciaran responds over her shoulder. “Though invaders seem unlikely.”

 

Ornstein merely has time to give her a brisk nod before they are parting at the base of the stairwell. “Be well,” he says only.

 

“Same to thee, captain,” she replies.

 

Ornstein finds the silver knight battalions in a state of near-flawless readiness, each gripping a sword or spear and looking as though they prepare to march into battle. Their first lieutenant, a man named Lowan, is leading them in a rallying cry. At their captain's appearance, the distinct forms of his elite squadron can be seen standing a little straighter. “To me,” he calls out, and the other knights part like a silver sea to let them pass.

 

Ladh, Dunn, and the other greatarchers are with Gough, but Ornstein has let the different regiments train separately for an event just like this one. For now, he is trailed by his nine hand-picked spearmen through the keep.

 

He hears another great, earth-shattering roar, this one undeniably close. Ornstein braces himself for sight of the dragon. However, when he and his knights emerge onto the main battlements, they behold a sight none were prepared for.

 

The night air, just above the reaches of the keep, swarms with drakes. They are small when compared to a proper dragon, or great wyverns like the ones he and Gwynsen have recently faced down, but each is still the size of a bear.

 

“It looks like this time a nest has come to us,” Ornstein growls. He feels a little trepidation, and forces it down. They have practiced against illusory drakes and wyverns, of course, for preparedness' sake, but Gwyndolin has not seen as many of those up close, and they had been somewhat lacking in realism compared to his false dragons. “Remember, many of the same principles apply,” he reminds his knights. “But when you are divided, remember to stay within sight of each other! They are still big enough to pin a man down!” He has seen a drake stand on a man's chest and rip the front of his helm, and much of the front of his skull, away from the rest of his body. They will have heard those stories too.

 

With a shout of acknowledgment, they get into formation. Ornstein lifts his spear aloft, feels it pulsate with lightning, and sends a bolt at one drake, who has hesitated in the air to shriek at them. The shock gets its attention, and it screeches out as it dives for them.

 

“Steady now!” Ornstein yells, and sees that the drake is headed squarely for him. Very well then – he can give a demonstration. As the beast dives, he angles his weight, bracing against the ground, and before it can sink its angry talons into him, he shifts his stance and punctures it through the lungs, all the way through its narrow chest. It cries out in anguish, staining his gilt armor with its blood, and then is instantly dead.

 

The other knights do not have lightning-imbued spears, and cannot bait the drakes as Ornstein does, but the solution to that is revealed just as the problem itself is realized. “Captain,” comes the urgent, yet still somehow chipper, voice of Ladh, trailed closely by Dunn and the other greatarchers of Ornstein's dragonslaying unit. _Gough and the rest of his archers must be able to hold their own even without them,_ Ornstein thinks. “Get ready to bring them down!” he orders them, and the archers ready themselves.

 

Each one of them is a marksman. For every five bolts fired, one drake falls dead out of the sky, and two more come screaming at the knights, howling in pain and bent on returning the favor. The spearmen engage them then, thrusting their weapons into the unarmored chest cavities of the drakes, though few manage to impale them all the way through as Ornstein does.

 

The drakes' numbers have been much reduced. Ornstein allows himself to focus on the dragon, now. It is impossibly large, circling the sky above the castle like a vulture scouting a carcass. From far off, he hears the shouting of men and the clinking of armor and steel, and realizes that skirmishes are happening in the streets of the royal city.

 

_How can this happen?_ he thinks desperately. The nobles and their servants will surely be taking refuge inside their homes; it must be the other silver knights who have taken to the streets to defend the domain of the Gods. _How can these beasts be so daring? Why have they come all this way just to cause some bloodshed, and then to perish?_

 

It does not do to dwell on the logic of dragons, though perhaps Gwynsen would disagree. _Where is Gwynsen?_ Ornstein thinks to himself, though he knows that by now it is likely the prince will have joined his father on the upper ramparts. The dragon must be brought down to their level before they can fight it; however, at this range, there is a danger it could fall upon the city, or even the keep itself. _Why has Gough not brought it down before now?_ he realizes, suddenly tense. He knows the giant greatarcher can fell a dragon from five times this distance. From this close, he could likely do it blindfolded. Something is wrong, he knows.

 

“Dunn,” he calls to the nearest archer. “Was anything amiss when you left your squadron?”

 

The archer does not answer, but he can see that the man is thinking in a similar worrying vein as he is. The archers each look amongst each other, suddenly unsure. “Come!” Ornstein commands, and the squadron takes off into the keep.

 

They reach the battlements on the opposite side of the castle to a chaotic scene unfolding. Patterns of blood paint the stonework beneath where the archers fight off their hooded opponents. Ornstein only takes a split second to take in the implications of the scene: _And now there are intruders here, in the castle itself. And they are men._ Gough himself is besieged by three hooded swordsmen, taking turns slicing at the giant's legs and upper body. There is no time to waste.

 

His regiment needs no direction as they disperse into the battle. Ornstein darts across the room and impales one of Gough's attackers on his spear before the assassin has any chance to realize they have been targeted, or that reinforcements have arrived.

 

With the distraction this affords them, Gough swings his arm and knocks one of the swordsmen against the parapets. The man twitches at first, but does not rise again.

 

Gough looks down at Ornstein wordlessly, and within a moment they have cleared a circle around them. Ornstein takes stock of their surroundings. The last of the assassins is being quickly dispatched by a spear through the neck.

 

The ground is littered with the bodies of the fallen. A few silver knights lie bleeding on the ground, dead or approaching it. Their fellows rush to their aid, performing what field miracles they know.

 

Ornstein looks at Gough, a silent question. “I cannot, now,” Gough says only. “It is too close. It could fall upon the city. But I will wait for a chance.”

 

Ornstein nods.

 

“They could be elsewhere in the castle,” Gough says. Again, Ornstein nods.

 

“I shall take a few of my men with me and see if healers can be fetched from Gwynevere's rooms.” He picks out a few of the readiest spearmen from amidst from the carnage and bids them to follow. The bodies of the would-be assassins can be studied, later.

 

Ornstein and his knights begin the trek to Gwynevere's rooms. Within the great halls of the keep, there is not yet any sign of invaders. Silver knights hurry back and forth, a few having caught wind of the attack on the archers. Their ranks are in chaos, and their first lieutenant is nowhere in sight.

 

Beginning the climb to Gwynevere's rooms, Ornstein sees an ill omen that makes his heart clench in fear: bloodied footprints, leading to the princess' chambers. “Come!” he beckons to his knights, but the door to the chamber opens just before they approach.

 

Out steps Ciaran, her gold and silver tracers, and her porcelain mask, stained with layers of fresh blood. The rest must soak into her deep blue vestments. She sees Ornstein. “The princess is safe,” she says, wasting no time. “One of my Blades is dead.”

 

“How many were there?!” Ornstein demands, moving to see into the room. He sees a number of strange men draped across the marbled floors. Terrified maidens, many of them palace healers, weep softly in the corner with their beloved Goddess, while one tries in vain to revive a fallen Blade.

 

“We have need of healers,” he calls into the room. “You shall be safeguarded. The greatarchers of Gough have been ambushed.” A few rise shakily to their feet, and hurry to him. Ciaran shoots Ornstein a look, her body language stiff and concerned.

 

“What is this?!” she echoes his thoughts, sounding unbelieving. “Dragonkin and assassins together. And they have struck at the healers and the archers... at our defenses.” There is no doubt they are dealing now with an organized attack, one that defies their imagination. “They must have snuck in after our attention was held by the dragon,” Ornstein curses. “We could not fathom them working in tandem.”

 

“Captain,” one of the spearman knights speaks. “Should we not check on the rest of the royal family?”

 

Now Ornstein's disbelief shifts in another direction. He turns to look at the knight. “Engold?” he demands. “Thou art not with thy regiment!”

 

“Forgive me, captain, I – I saw that there was trouble and I knew I had to follow.” Engold stammers. “I had no intention of fighting a dragon, as thou requested.”

 

There is no time to sort this out. “Come,” Ornstein says. “There is a chance the Dark Sun could have been targeted, as well.”

 

He sends a few of his knights with the healers, and with the rest, they make their way to Gwyndolin's rooms, but he is nowhere to be seen. For good measure, Gwynsen's are checked, as well, but it is hardly a surprise that the elder prince must be out making war. There are no signs of blood or intruders here.

 

They can hear the fighting continuing outside. Ornstein leads his remaining knights to the upper ramparts, where he had first beheld the dragon beside Lord Gwyn and Artorias. Another surprise awaits them there: an emerald green great wyvern is hissing its last breaths as Gwynsen's swordspear takes it directly between the eyes.

 

Ornstein stops in place as he takes in the full scene. Artorias stands amidst a heap of bodies, all hooded strangers, while Lord Gwyn and his son circle around the newly dead dragonkin. In the bright, pale moonlight, Ornstein can see much more of the intruders: a hood fallen away from one such man reveals a young, plain face. His features suggest perhaps Astora, or the delta farmlands. Another of the assassins has features more typical of Catarina. A third might have been from Carim, if Ornstein had to guess. Very few looked as though they were native to Lordran or its outlands.

 

Artorias is the first to notice their approach. “Captain,” he calls, more of an urgent plea than a greeting. “What is happening down below? Pray, are we needed?”

 

“Intruders have attacked Gough's regiment of greatarchers, as well as the Princess and her healers. All have been thwarted for now, but we know not the source of the breach.”

 

Gwynsen and his lord father are there, now, too, listening to Ornstein with rapt attention. “There has been an attempt on Gwynevere's life?” Gwynsen repeats, sounding furious.

 

“Ciaran's Blades have kept her safe. We know not where Lord Gwyndolin is.” At this, the prince curses, loudly.

 

Lord Gwyn's voice is thundering. “Gwyndolin knows how he has been ordered to obscure himself in situations like this! He is an obedient child. Worry not for him now!”

 

“We shall slaughter them all,” Gwynsen promises, his voice trembling with rage. “They ally themselves with the dragons and dare to make war on the Gods? _All of humanity_ will feel the folly of this!”

 

It has been a long time since Ornstein has been in the presence of his prince's true fury. Once roused, it is fire. The art of making war on lesser dragonkin is straightforward, like hunting beasts. Possibly Gwynsen has not been this angry since they have fought against cleverer foes.

 

A loud roar cuts through the air, and all of them there look heavenward. The dragon, still sailing far overhead, is now descending through the clouds. Ornstein prays that in this moment Gough does not shoot it, or they shall all surely be crushed.

 

The creature's scale is immense. Moonlight barely touches it, but seems to be absorbed into its hide as it descends through the air in great, looping spirals. All at once, Gwynsen and Ornstein lock eyes, sharing the same thought, for they have seen this beast once before – though it has been many hundreds of years.

 

_Haaluun, the thrice-struck._ “So, this one returns at last,” Lord Gwyn growls, as the dragon bears closer and closer down upon them.

 

It is a massive creature, either one of the true everlasting dragons, or a direct descendant. A hateful beast, and a freak like Seath, but very unlike him as well: for its hide is thick and encroaching, its scales slabs of rock, protruding from the beast like heavy armor. And, Ornstein realizes with something approaching awe, he can still see the three distinct places where he and Gwynsen had carved deep marks upon it so long ago. _We thought it slain so many times, but always it proved too resilient. Has it bided its time for centuries, dwelling on old hatreds?_

 

With a brilliant burst, Lord Gwyn flings another sunlit spear, and it lodges in Haaluun's hide like an arrow bolt. The beast does not roar in pain, only continues its gliding descent, and something like fear must surely enter them now. _If it wanted to crush the castle, it could. It could crush it beneath, and all of us, like insects._ It seems to be headed, Ornstein realizes, for the bridge just outside the keep.

 

“When it lands, I shall engage it,” Gwynsen proclaims, already climbing up on the parapets. He turns only long enough to look between Ornstein and Artorias, and briefly at his father. “If thou seest my brother Gwyndolin, ensure he is safe.” And then he is gone.

 

Ornstein moves to the nearest embrasure, peering out to see the elder prince nimbly leaping between various ledges and roofs, all the way down the front of the castle. He looks over his shoulder. “Thou art a dragonslayer,” Lord Gwyn roars, “Go!” Artorias gives him a nod, an acquiescence to Ornstein's silent request from his new position beside the spear knights, and so Ornstein follows the path of Gwynsen's descent.

 

Few among even the gods are nimble this way – but, it is a skill often acquired by those who hunt winged beasts. Ornstein picks a winding path down the castle, bracing his knees upon landing in the way that is, by now, honed instinct. Somewhere in the midst of this chaos, rain has started to fall, and now it is like a fog – he cannot see Gwynsen anymore, but he can make out the battlements where the greatarchers are regrouping, notching their arrows once more. Ornstein lands on a narrow balcony. He can see the shape of the dragon as it parts the mists before it.

 

With a great roar, Haaluun thunders to the ground, sprawled before the mighty stone steps to Gwyn's keep. Its massive weight must strain the ability of the bridge beneath it, but for now, it holds. _Why there?_ Ornstein wonders. _Unless it is to draw our attention?_

 

“ _Listen to my words, dragonslayer,_ ” comes a great, booming voice, so all-consuming that it seems to rattle the stone beneath Ornstein's feet. He realizes in that moment the dragon does not address him, but the form of Gwynsen, who stands to face the dragon at the foot of the steps, with his swordspear gripped readily in one hand. “ _As thou wishest to unmake me, I shall unmake thee._ ”

 

The wind carries Gwynsen's reply to him. “Thou hast traveled far, beast, just to tell riddles and perish. If it is death thou seekest, thou wilt find it _willing_.”

 

Ornstein leaps from the balcony, landing swiftly just before the tightly-shut doors to Gwyn's keep. He makes his way down the steps until he approaches where Gwynsen stands, holding his spear at the ready. The prince only drops his head slightly to acknowledge him when they are side by side, and lets their eyes meet for the barest of moments.

 

“ _Slay me, then_ ,” the beast howls, and lunges its great head forward.

 

In unspoken understanding, Gwynsen and Ornstein strafe in opposite directions as the stone steps crater from the impact. Ornstein sees the prince going for one of the marks they have already made on the dragon, centuries past, where it will surely be more vulnerable, and moves to give him an opening by thrusting his spear between two of the dragon's stony scales, and delivering a shock.

 

Aggravated, Haaluun wrenches its neck around, snapping with its terrible jaws at the mosquito on its shoulder, but Ornstein is already gone, and Gwynsen has plunged the swordspear into the dragon's vulnerable injury.

 

With a howl, the beast begins to thrash on the ground, attempting to throw them off. A whip of its tail narrowly misses Gwynsen, who drops to the ground just in time, and takes a narrow chance to cleave a wider channel through the dragon's scales. Beneath, the tough skin faintly glows like fire, but another thrust draws spurts of ancient blood.

 

Ornstein is in position now. He sees another of the dragon's past injuries, just where he'd remembered it: just beneath the ligaments of the wing. This one is small, inflicted hundreds of years ago by Gwynsen's spear, before he had exchanged it for his current weapon. Ornstein plunges the dragonslayer spear into the narrow crevice and twists.

 

This time the roar the creature makes is anger mingled with agony. It rears up on its hind legs, and Ornstein darts away as it attempts to trample him.

 

Seizing the advantage, Gwynsen is on the beast's back, now. He is going to make another incision, this one right between the dragon's shoulderblades. Going directly for the heart – but it is risky.

 

At that moment, Haaluun bucks forward, thrashing with its upper body, giving a mighty beat with its wings, and then swinging so violently to the side that Gwynsen cannot keep his footing, and is thrown from the beast's back.

 

For a heart-stopping moment, Ornstein thinks the prince has been swept from the bridge down into the valley below, but he is just as quickly pulling himself back up, and his knight is reminded once again what a chasm in ability exists between the Gods and those who serve them. Still, before the dragon can attempt to pursue Gwynsen again, Ornstein baits it with his spear, delivering a quick jab near its eye, a lucky strike that has the beast bearing down on him with single-minded vengeance.

 

He has a pattern in mind, just as he always does when following the flow of battle: a path to victory that revises and reworks itself in real time, mostly to avoid being killed or injured himself, until opportunity hits. But suddenly all of Ornstein's plans are given a jolt when a flash of blue light swats the dragon in the face, and draws all of their attention skyward.

 

_Gwyndolin_. He lurks high above, on a small balcony protruding from one of the narrow towers, his bow in hand. _Rather than hide away, he thinks to assist us._ Ornstein only has time to absorb this sight for the briefest moment as the dragon swings at him again.

 

He lunges to the side, then pivots in place to avoid another desperate swing of the creature's tail.

 

The prince is nearby, standing, his body language unnaturally rigid, as if they are not currently fighting a dragon. His gaze is locked on something on the horizon. He is looking up at the castle. He is staring, Ornstein realizes, at Gwyndolin still.

 

Cursing, the knight chances another glimpse up at the tower. That's when he sees at last, by the glow of the moonlight: Gwyndolin is not alone where he stands.

 

A shimmer behind the young lord, like the glint of blades. Gwyndolin seems oblivious. _What can we do from here?!_ Ornstein thinks, in a blinding fury of panic, and then his mind shifts as he sees the dragon lunge for them both again.

 

Gwynsen has enough presence of mind to roll out of the way, but Ornstein can feel the glow of fury pulsing through him. “Until every one of you is dead,” the prince snarls, “the Gods will not know peace again!”

 

In the briefest window of opportunity, as the dragon's underbelly hurtles past them, Gwynsen lunges forward with all his weight, and the swordspear strikes true, the dragon's own weight etching forth a horrendous laceration into its thick hide. A huge swath of skin is vulnerable now, vulnerable to Ornstein's spear as it wrenches through and digs deep. Now, the dragon cries out, as life's blood rushes forth into the rain and wind.

 

_Twung_. A splitting sound shakes the air. It is one of Gough's great arrows. _With the fast pace of the battle, it must have been impossible to get a good shot._ Not without disrupting their strategy, that is. But the arrow does not come for the dragon.

 

Though the giant must only have degrees to work with, the arrow, directed skyward, strikes a lurking target, and Gwyndolin spins about in surprise as the would-be assassin crumples sideways, dead.

 

“ _It would have been nice to knock off one or two of you, Blood of Gwyn_ ,” the dragon breathes, ceasing to struggle as it seems to accept its final fate. Gwynsen's gaze finally drifts down from the tower, but rage still clouds him as he approaches the head of the beast. “ _But a pleasure, it was, to see you scrambling to defend your anthill._ ”

 

“Thou hast allied with humans,” Gwynsen observes, wasting no time. “What hast thou promised them? Did they simply seek a night's entertainment, hunting Gods?”

 

The dragon lets loose a rumbling sigh. “ _Humans... are curious creatures,_ ” it utters at last. “ _Always seeking answers... to non-questions. Some of them hope to find it with the Gods. But others have lost faith, and turn to those of us that were here before even you._ ”

 

“They came to thee seeking wisdom, and thou hast made them into an army,” the prince says with disgust. “Thou must have known the outcome from the start. Short-sighted, thou art, for an ancient creature.”

 

Now, an unexpected sound, like thunder from far away, but it is the dragon, laughing hollowly from deep within its bones. “ _Uniquely, I have grown tired of life,_ ” Haaluun wheezes. “A _consequence, perhaps, of meeting with the taste of your cruel weapons so long ago. Perhaps some of what made me dragon has seeped out, and now I am like your kind, sporting for blood. But sometimes, I still remember what it is to be dragon. Thou shouldst know as well._ ”

 

Gwynsen tenses. “What it means to be dragon?” he ventures, unclear.

 

“ _I shall show thee_ ,” Haaluun purrs. “ _Put thy hand upon my brow. Be not afraid, for in defeat I do have honor. I will do thee no injury._ ”

 

“My prince,” Ornstein begins, urgently, but his protest is swallowed up by the rain as Gwynsen, looking as if he moves through a dream, extends his hand and lays it against the dragon's forehead, just between its eyes.

 

For a moment, all is stillness: the tinkering sound of droplets of rain hitting metal. Then, a booming _rush_ as if from nowhere, and Gwynsen falls back and drops to his knees, holding his hand in front of him as if he has scorched it.

 

Now Ornstein wastes no time. He shoves the spear further into the dragon's core, twisting it cruelly, urgently, until the dragon screams its final exhale, and then – at last - goes still against the stone.

 

When Ornstein reaches him, Gwynsen is back on his feet, but the prince will not look at his knight. Something is going on behind his eyes, something that Ornstein cannot bear witness to, no matter how closely he investigates. Finally, one hand reaches for Ornstein's shoulder, bracing against the metal, tracing the shape of his pauldrons, before finally his gaze follows. “Thou didst well,” the prince says only.

 

Ornstein has many questions, but there is one that must come first. He casts a glance back over at the dragon, as still as a pile of rubble as it lies on the ruins of the bridge. “Can we be sure this time, that it is truly slain?” he murmurs, though he cannot fathom how life remains in it now.

 

“It is dead,” Gwynsen says only. “This time I know it.”

 

Ornstein looks towards the castle. There is still fighting taking place up above, but the tide has obviously swept decisively in their favor. It is only the last remnants of the drakes flitting about the castle, now, screeching down at their attackers as arrows hurtle towards them.

 

“Let us clear the keep,” Ornstein suggests, when Gwynsen does not move to issue orders or take charge. “It cannot hurt to be sure that the human foes are dealt with.”

 

Gwynsen looks at him, and nods.

 

* * *

 

A semblance of order has returned to the interior of the castle. The entrances have been secured, and every inch has been turned over. They have even checked the hidden rooms, the ones that dwell behind illusory walls, in case they have been discovered and utilized.

 

Lowan, the first lieutenant of the silver knights, is assuring Ornstein that the answers to all their questions will be deduced in time. Two of the intruders have been detained alive, and are being subjected to interrogation. Ornstein listens with as much interest as he can muster, and goes about gathering more reports.

 

From scattered sources, including Artorias, he learns there has been another great wyvern, besides the one slain earlier upon the upper ramparts. This one had lain ambush to the bulk of the silver knight forces remaining on the battlements, sending great plumes of fire down upon them until a greatarcher had grounded it. Then Ornstein's dragonslayers had swarmed into the inner courtyard and engaged the beast in battle.

 

More news reaches him. Wheland is dead. He has succumbed to an injury much like the one that nearly took Ornstein months before, only the foe he faced was larger still, and the injury he sustained from the beast's jaws had nearly torn him in half. Even if he'd had prompt attention from the healers, according to the report, it is scarcely possible he could have survived.

 

Ornstein remembers his squadron's very first training exercise with Gwyndolin's illusory dragon, how Wheland and Nells had taken turns baiting the dragon, putting their teamwork on display. Their captain was loathe to speculate too much on the personal lives of his soldiers – it was not his place - but the effortless way they worked together on the field reminded him so much of himself and the elder prince, sometimes, that he could not help but wonder if there was not something else there. After enough time spent with them, though, Ornstein determined that there was not: for he knew the subtle signs he would have seen. Still, once the adrenaline is gone, Nells sobs like a lost child over the loss of his friend. The sight is difficult to bear, even though he has witnessed this scene too many times to count.

Out of a 20 man regiment of trained dragonslayers, all in all - amidst the confusion and ambush and dragon's fire - they have lost only four. The wyvern they had faced down ( _alone, without their captain or their prince to guide them_ ) had been a monster, nearly as big as its everlasting cousins. On paper, their survival rate is staggeringly high. Ornstein swallows down a breath. They are the best dragonslayers he has ever trained.

 

Business is sorted for the night when no one else approaches him for status updates, for questions, for reports. Dawn must be creeping on the near horizon, but for now the sky retains much of its inky blue hues. Ornstein has been pulled far past any man's sane limit, physically, but he does not feel the weight of exhaustion yet. When he had left Gwynsen, the prince had seemed changed, distant, perhaps even in pain. Before rest can be had, he needs to see him again.

 

Ornstein makes his way through the halls, through which the royal family's rooms are accessed. It is no surprise that tonight, Gwynsen's room is attended by two silver knight guards, each with a sword at their hip.

 

He approaches the door, but the knights tense. It is unexpected. Both move now, to stand in front of the prince's doors.

 

“Stand aside,” Ornstein attempts, briskly, although the message they are sending is clear.

 

“Sorry, captain,” speaks one, obviously uncomfortable. “My Lord has retired for the night.”

 

Though Ornstein wears his helm, he attempts to give them a sharp look. “My visit shall be brief. Now I ask you again to _stand aside_.”

 

“No one is allowed inside, captain,” the other knight tries, now, and their captain's patience is truly tested.

 

“I am his first knight and I shall see him!” Ornstein snarls, daring either one of them to challenge his authority.

 

One knight looks to the other. Both look slightly taken aback by the blazing force of his protests. “I'm sorry, captain,” one of them says, slowly. “but thou wert specifically included in our orders.”

 

Ornstein freezes. “ _What?_ ”

 

“The prince told us no one was to gain admittance to his rooms,” the same knight explains. “ _Including_ his first knight.”

 

Somewhere inside, his stomach plummets, his breath shallows. Frustration and desperation swell up in equal measures, but above all, hurt. Gwynsen _knew_ he would come, and made sure he would not be allowed in. To be denied like this at the end of a long, grueling ambush, where under his nose he has lost four talented men into whom he had poured countless hours of his attention and care, is almost too much.

 

Surprising even himself, he raises his spear. “Shall either of you stand against your captain?” he asks, in a low and dangerous tone.

 

The two knights look at each other, alarmed. He can see one slowly reaching along the handle of his sword, but he does not draw it. “Captain,” one cautions, his voice unsteady. “our orders come from the prince himself. We cannot ignore his wishes.”

 

They cannot neglect their orders. Yet they cannot bring themselves to draw steel upon their captain. “I promise you, you shall not be punished for this,” Ornstein swears to them, lowering his spear, but making it clear his intentions are not changed. “If there is blame, it shall fall upon me. I will make sure of it. You have my word as your captain, and as a knight of Lord Gwyn.”

 

The knights look to each other again, and at last, one of them steps aside for him, and the other reluctantly follows. He cannot yet be angry at himself now, for the predicament he has forced the loyal soldiers into. Right now, he must see Gwynsen.

 

The room he steps into is dark – only the light from the hall encroaches upon it, and it is gone when the door shuts behind him. He can see a bit of the prince's shape on the bed. Not knowing what to do, Ornstein drops his spear. It makes a loud and ugly sound on the floor.

 

“Gwynsen,” he begins, not knowing how to proceed now that he has just made a rude entrance, and almost fought past the prince's own guards to do it. There are so many things he wishes to ask. _Art thou hurt? Why hast thou kept me away? What have I done?_ ….but he cannot give voice to them. Instead he approaches the bed, his metal footsteps heavy against the marbled floors.

 

Gwynsen does not react to his approaching, and Ornstein's anger and hurt bow to a twinge of fear. He hastens his steps until he is at the prince's bedside. “Gwynsen?” he ventures again, and quickly lights the nearby candle so that he may see him.

 

The sight before him is a total shock. The prince, who has never before fallen ill that Ornstein could see - whose divine blood fills him with untold vitality - lies trembling in his bed, his brows taut together as if he is in a bad dream, his skin swathed in sweat as if he continues to wage war against the dragon. He does not seem cognizant of Ornstein's presence at all. “My prince!” Ornstein calls out, all else forgotten now as he switches into field instinct. Baring one of his own hands, he checks for fever, and finds none. He pulls the prince's bedclothes out of the way to check for the telltale swelling and bruising of internal bleeding, and finds only the familiar patchwork of barely-there scars that he is used to, the only sign that the God has ever been damaged in war.

 

In case Gwynsen is at all aware of him, Ornstein speaks as he presses his fingers against the prince's chest, while trying to calm himself for his next action. “I fear this is outside my depth, my prince,” he tells him, calling upon the last of his own energy to perform the miracle. “This will only relieve some of thy pain. Hold on for me until I bring the healers-”

 

As the warmth from his palms flows into Gwynsen, the prince weakly opens his eyes. “ _No_ ,” he says, in a voice that is somehow resolute, though it comes forth weakly. Ornstein seizes upon it.

 

“Thou art sick, or injured,” Ornstein tells him, attempting to be brief. “I must fetch competent help or thy condition could worsen-”

 

“No.” This time Gwynsen grips Ornstein's hand with surprising strength, trapping him in place. “I command thee, _no_.”

 

Ornstein shakes his head, defiant. “I have already ignored one of thine commands tonight. Release me,” he demands. “I cannot let thee suffer.” When his words do not move Gwynsen, he tries again. “Wouldst thou let _me_ suffer, my love?”

 

“I know they cannot help me,” the prince murmurs. “Be calm. I shall explain all.” Then his face forms the barest beginnings of a pout. “...And thou knowest I should die before I let thee suffer, cruel knight.”

 

Ornstein's patience is frayed from the scare of seeing Gwynsen so unresponsive only moments before, but he indicates his willingness to sit and listen. He perches on the side of the bed, beside his prince. “On the bridge, when thou touchedst the dragon,” he ventures.

 

“Yes,” Gwynsen acknowledges. “What flashed through me... a series of words and images... memories, perhaps, that were not mine, that I still can hardly understand...”

 

Now his knight peers at him with heightened interest. “The dragon... transferred some of its knowledge to thee?”

 

“If it is all knowledge, I have not deciphered it yet,” Gwynsen mumurs. “Some of it may be meaningless... altogether, though, it stretches backwards so far as to be beyond my reckoning... were I not a god, I know not... I might have been driven mad.”

 

Ornstein shivers now. Without any forethought, he reaches out his bare hand to rest on Gwynsen's own. “It is painful, still?” he asks. “If thou wishest not for healers, I shall do my best to attend thee-”

 

Now Gwynsen gives him a _look_. “Faithful Ornstein,” he breathes at last, his features relaxing. “Thou lookest utterly spent. Another miracle may have thee more drained than I am.” The hand in Ornstein's grasp twitches, and with a bit of effort the prince laces their fingers together. Ornstein's throat catches at the small gesture. “Thou hast suffered much tonight,” he murmurs. “How many?”

 

Ornstein must look away. He knows what his prince asks after. “Four,” he murmurs.

 

Gwynsen only nods. “They died honorably.”

 

Ornstein thinks of Wheland, his entire lower body clinging to the rest of him by only a few threads, and forces himself to return the nod.

 

“They followed thee willingly, Ornstein,” the prince murmurs. “They were soldiers, all. To meet their end making thee proud would have been their deepest wish.”

 

Ornstein is not proud. He is tired. The pain in his heart is raw and aching, like an open wound.

 

He looks down at his prince, traces his handsome features, the fond and gentle expression that dwells on his face. _No matter what has happened tonight,_ he thinks, _we have averted the worst of disaster._ Gwynsen spoke the truth – his knights had volunteered for service knowing they faced a likely death. The royal family was safe, and so was the castle, and so were many of their fellows. He knows he shall be proud of them when the pain settles.

 

“Thine soldiers tried to send me away,” Ornstein says after a long silence. Gwynsen looks regretful.

 

“I was not thinking clearly. The pain overtaking my mind was overwhelming in the moment. I did not know if I would be a danger to those who saw me. But I think the worst has passed.” Gwynsen sighs, and then manages a small smile. “Though I was a fool to think I could keep thee away.”

 

“Indeed,” Ornstein agrees heartily, allowing himself a similar smile.

 

Gwynsen looks down, now, at their fingers laced together, and Ornstein does as well. It feels good to be together like this, even in the smallest way. The prince runs a thumb over their joined hands.

 

“Go now,” he utters then, breaking the spell. “I shall be well in the morning, and thou needest thy rest.”

 

Ornstein sees the remnants of pain still on the prince's face, the way his skin still beads with sweat. “I shall stay with thee,” he murmurs. “So that if trouble arises, I may help thee.”

 

“Ornstein-”

 

“Let me share thy bed, tonight,” he continues, determination picking up in his voice. “Please. I can only rest knowing thou art well.”

 

Gwynsen looks pained, now, and Ornstein wonders how much he will have to fight for this.

 

“The truth is, Ornstein... I believe I shall have urgent need of thee soon, as my first knight,” the prince mutters. “Tis not a good time for scandal to emerge. And if thou stayest, we shall be talked about.”

 

_Oh._ Ornstein only lowers his head, and forces a nod. He feels suddenly immeasurably foolish, aware all at once at just how far he has stepped outside his station. Ignoring orders, barging into his prince's room, then demanding to be allowed to sleep with him in his bed, although guards stand just outside. He is appalled at his own behavior. It does not at all befit even the most uncouth of knights, let alone one who proudly bears the favor of the royal family. “I-I apologize, my Lord,” he manages, stiffly. Gwynsen shoots him an unbelieving look. “...My prince,” he corrects. “I shall take my leave of thee.”

 

He rises off the bed and turns to go. He does not bow - knowing Gwynsen will likely bristle at it, as he does not like such gestures while they are alone together – but only picks up his spear and heads to the door.

 

“Wait,” he hears Gwynsen's tired voice, from the direction of the bed, and stops.

 

_I have left the candle lit,_ he thinks at once. _He shall have me extinguish it. What an oblivious fool I've become._

 

“I love thee. Truly.” The prince's voice is barely-there, but tender. “I often think that I... that I do not deserve thy devotion as my knight, nor as my beloved.”

 

Something about the word pricks at the inside of Ornstein's chest. He is used to thinking of himself as the prince's lover, in the same sense of the word that comes to mind when he thinks about how Lord Gwyn, proud and posturing though he is, has had many secret liaisons with decidedly non-royal women. Undoubtedly, Gwynsen and his first knight have great love for each other: they have endured much together, bled together in battle, been intimate friends for far longer than they have been intimately acquainted. _Beloved_. It brings to mind princes, and their betrothed princesses, like from the songs.

 

He swallows hard, and turns briefly to look over his shoulder. “Good night, Gwynsen,” he says. “I pray the morning shall see thee well.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh... battle scene and dragon oc and silver knight ocs... 
> 
> Thank you all very much again for your comments!! <3 They really cheer me to read!


	5. Farce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two arrivals and a departure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter got rather long! I hope you enjoy it!

 

* * *

 

The following few days are a blur of monotony, submerging what lurks constantly of sorrow, fear, and confusion. Knights of every discipline have lost comrades, but there is work to be done.

 

The dead bodies of the dragonkin are hauled off with effort (sliced into chunks, when necessary), and wheeled out of the city. The fallen human intruders go up in a massive pyre. Ornstein watches the flames burn, impassively, as the embers light up the evening sky.

 

Gwynsen has not spoken any more of whatever the dragon had put in his mind, and seems content not to. He checks in with the soldiers, and shares with them his familiar, easy laugh. None of them can truly be said to be back to normal, however. Not yet. It has been a very long time since Anor Londo has suffered direct attack. No one utters the word “complacent”, because it is not true – they have never relaxed their guard, never stopped training or scheming or drilling. But there is a special sort of calm, Ornstein realizes, that arises without the feeling of fresh loss, or danger to one's home.

 

The four knights of Gwyn are to be honored, formally, by the royal family, for their loyal service and protection. As always, Lord Gwyn's response to catastrophe is to find some distinction to bestow. In the land of the Gods, there is no such thing as pain, sorrow, or hardship. There is only that which is glorious.

 

Ornstein wants small part in it, but he does not object. He understands why such things are necessary.

 

“She was one of my most promising,” Ciaran is saying, presently. Ornstein had not appreciated her loss, fully, at first. To lose only one soldier had seemed to him a tremendous stroke of fortune. “...If not my _most_ promising,” Ciaran amends, after a moment. “But gone, she was, in an instant. Sometimes I think it matters not how much you train them. It will never be enough to outmaneuver the... _spitefully random_ nature of death.”

 

“That is true,” Ornstein acknowledges, taking another sip of his drink. “It could come for anyone at any time, even when they are experienced and well-trained.”

 

“ _Even for us_ ,” Ciaran adds in. She might even be drunk right now, as they sit here alone, though Ornstein would not be surprised if an assassin trained with alcohol tolerance the way they supposedly did with poisons. “I heard thou camest into some trouble, a while back.”

 

“Hmm. From what source?”

 

“From Artorias.”

 

Ah. Then she does speak of that injury. It is many months past, now, and only a web of scar tissue remains to give any indication that he was once nearly torn apart by the jaws of a wyvern. “What happens if one of us falls?” Ciaran wonders, idly. “Besides the gilded funeral we shall have, and the stately tomb perhaps, and near _deification_ bestowed upon us postmortem by our Lord.”

 

It is true the aging Lord Gwyn likes to make displays of his good favor, but Ornstein does not take so cynical a view. “Wouldst thou like to be forgotten, then?” he returns. “Put away quietly in some crypt, or a hole in the ground?”

 

“I think I shall never die, instead,” Ciaran decides, and they both breathe a low chuckle.

 

The room in which they sit is the private hall for Gwyn's four knights. Though its ceilings are high, just as in the rest of the keep, it is a small, intimate place, only wide enough for a giant like Gough to walk for a few paces. And though it is intended for Gwyn's knights, it is of course also known to the Lord and his family.

 

There is a noise at the door and Gwynsen enters the room then, causing Ornstein and Ciaran to stand. “My Lord,” Ciaran greets, with a small bow, and Ornstein does the same out of habit. Gwynsen waves away their attentions.

 

“Come, let us sit.” The two knights sit back down, and Gwynsen effortlessly slides into the seat beside Ornstein. He eyes the both of them, as well as the tankards before them. “Getting drunk on duty while the sun is still high,” he observes, genially. “I will delight in thinking about this when we are all presented as heroes by my father tomorrow.” Carelessly, he picks up Ornstein's cup and downs the rest of it himself.

 

To Ciaran he says, “Thou lookedst quite attached to thine, see.”

 

“I think it might be good for thee to know, my Lord,” Ciaran begins, a bit slyly, “that I do believe thy father has more in store for this ceremony. Movements in the palace suggest we shall soon be expecting _guests_.”

 

Ornstein, now, looks at her in surprise. It is the first he has heard of it, though they have been sitting here together for the last half hour. Gwynsen tenses just the slightest bit.

 

“Perhaps I already know about that, O presumptuous Ciaran,” he shrugs.

 

“Thou art a poor liar, my prince,” Ciaran snorts. “But thou knowest thy lord father likes to play such things close. Be not offended he does not share it with thee. Besides, thou art bad with secrets.”

 

Ornstein feels Gwynsen's gaze turn to him, almost reflexively, and cannot help rolling his eyes as the prince has instantly proved Ciaran's point. He refuses to linger in embarrassment. “How many guests?” Ornstein asks, to feed his curiosity.

 

“Not many,” Ciaran muses. “My guess is perhaps ten in total, but of that number some are likely armed traveling companions. Any thoughts?”

 

Gwynsen looks completely flummoxed, now. “None at all,” he says, earnestly. “But I am guessing perhaps the fact of the dragon attack may turn out to be no coincidence, in which case, since they arrive so soon, they cannot come from far.” _No thoughts, indeed._

 

Ciaran nods briefly, indicating her agreement. “Well, we shall find out soon enough,” she declares. She rises, then seems to think better of such a swift exit, and hesitates by the table.

 

“Do you know there is a room by the kitchen stairwell that is behind a secret wall. One of Gwyndolin's, I think,” she says to them.

 

Ornstein perks with interest. “Yes, what of it? Has there been mischief?”

 

Ciaran looks exasperated. “I am telling thee as a spymaster, it is one of the least observed places in the palace. I believe it was originally intended for the use of the Blades, but... oh, curse, thou shalt force me to be blunt with it.” She dons her porcelain mask again. “I am proposing it as an alternative to the hallway, _if the mood strikes_.”

 

With that, and another small bow to the prince, she is gone. Ornstein rubs his temples with a groan, while Gwynsen is uncharacteristically silent for a moment.

 

Then he reaches over and downs the rest of Ciaran's cup, as well. “Hmm, I believe she has just told us where to fuck,” the prince observes.

 

Mortification mounts now. “It... would seem so,” Ornstein grits out. It is bad enough only sitting with the knowledge that she _knows_ (and Artorias, too, a fact which Ornstein desperately longs to forget) without also having to verbally acknowledge it.

 

“It is kind of nice, I think, to know that there is someone who can be trusted with this,” Gwynsen continues, scooting just a little closer. “I should have kissed thee right there before her eyes...”

 

“I thought caution was needed especially, now,” Ornstein interjects, mumbling, tilting his head away just the slightest bit as he can see the prince leaning in. He is still thinking of the night of the ambush on the castle, when he had been sent away.

 

Gwynsen shrugs. “There is no one here. And besides, it is the middle of the day, a very unsuspicious time.”

 

With his hand on Ornstein's chin, he angles their faces together, and Ornstein closes his eyes and leans into the kiss, protestations instantly discarded. _At least we both stink of ale, now,_ he thinks absently as he feels one hand come around to cup the back of his head, tracing the beginnings of his long ponytail.

 

He reaches for Gwynsen's shoulder to pull him in, letting their bodies ease closer as they shift together on the utilitarian wooden bench, which creaks with the constant redistribution of weight. Ornstein buries his gauntleted hand into the prince's silvery mane of hair, even though he cannot sense the individual strands as they pass between his covered fingertips. They kiss with tongue, heavy breath on each others' faces. The location isn't great. Nor is the situation. But he feels that suddenly they are both of them helpless, swept up in the currents of each other.

 

He wants him, so much. They have not lain together since before the attack on the castle. Closeness with Gwynsen – not merely sex or physical intimacy, but the serenity they have when they are alone together – is not something he often thinks about during the day, when his mind makes the transition to duty and routine, but sometimes at night, when he does not immediately succumb to the pull of sleep, his bones feel brittle with need and he is fearful of it, of this gnawing underneath his skin. _Surely we have taken this impossible thing past its limit._ Yet it is a thought that simply cannot linger as Gwynsen gently bites at his ear, because all of existence must be merely backdrop to _this_.

 

When the prince pulls away, opening his mouth to give voice to an idea, Ornstein stops him. “Please do not propose we act on Ciaran's _advice_ not five minutes after she has offered it,” he warns, pointedly.

 

“Of course not,” Gwynsen responds, looking very undeterred as he runs a thumb across Ornstein's cheek. “A prince does not take _suggestions_ from the likes of Ciaran. We should go to thy room instead.”

 

* * *

 

Adopting a purposeful, but unhurried stride, Ornstein makes his way back to his quarters alone.

 

He has only time to strip himself of armor down to the waist, his cuirass and arm plates lying on the trestle table when he hears Gwynsen's knock.

 

“ _Sir Ornstein?_ Art thou within? I may need thy help with something.” In spite of its necessity, Ornstein cannot help something between a groan and an amused snort at the half-hearted attempt at pretense. He opens the door to see the prince standing there. The halls, Ornstein can already tell, are empty. “Come in, my _Lord_ ,” he nonetheless replies, graciously, and Gwynsen complies.

 

As soon as the door is shut behind them, Gwynsen is running impatient hands over his waistline, growling in frustration as he drops to his knees and begins the urgent work of getting Ornstein out of his cuisses and greaves. Practice makes his fingers deft as he unhooks the clasps and lets the pieces fall to the floor, and before long, he is pulling at the waistband of Ornstein's breeches so roughly that it nearly brings the rest of the startled knight down, as well, and as he steps obligingly out of his underclothes Ornstein goes to lift his doublet over his head so that he is not left only half-naked.

 

The prince moves to press his mouth against Ornstein's bare stomach, but is thwarted by an impatient tug as his knight pulls at the fabric around Gwynsen's neck. A teasing smile, as Gwynsen grips Ornstein around his bare thighs. “Thou wantest me out of my clothes, as well?”

 

“-seems only fair.” The shallowness of his breath steals away some of his words.

 

“I am impatient,” Gwynsen murmurs, against the taut skin over Ornstein's hipbone, “So command me.”

 

Ornstein returns the look of wickedness in equal measure. He manages to disentangle himself from Gwynsen's grasp, with grace as if they are sparring, and takes a step back against his bed to recline upon it, leaving Gwynsen kneeling on the floor. “I command, then, _my prince_ ,” he drags out the words, “that thou shalt not touch me until there is not a scrap of fabric left on thee.”

 

“Hmm, but art thou not the one naked in thy bed, awaiting me?” Gwynsen asks, his tone deliberately languid and slow as if his eyes are not clouded in the urgency of desire. “Perhaps I shall return to court, and thou canst see in my absence whether thy fingers are an acceptable substitute...”

 

_Oh?_ Ornstein gives the prince only a sideways look, before one arm roams to his bedside table. He knows he has won when he senses even Gwynsen's breathing going still, and shuts his eyes, thinking only of his enraptured audience as he dips his fingers in the oil and begins the work of opening himself.

 

He hears a sound as Gwynsen steps towards him, but true to the mandate, he does not touch him. Still he watches, greedily, without shame, as Ornstein's fingers disappear into the depths of his body. Ornstein swallows as he tries to get past the strange sensation of being observed so closely like this, but his inhibitions are dulled by arousal, and in any circumstance the prince will do whatever his heart bids.

 

Gwynsen tortures them both by not moving to undress himself. Ornstein wants to toss away his pride, to be the first to give in. It would be easy, to reach over and guide those large hands to his body, to give them both some measure of relief. But he is stubborn, and there is also something burning under his skin at the weight of Gwynsen's enthralled gaze. So instead he continues fucking himself on his fingers, closing his eyes again to focus on the sensation, trying to be insensible of the small sounds emerging from his throat.

 

Finally, it is like something snaps, breaking the tension in the air, and now he hears the clinking of metal and cloth as with swelling haste the prince moves to strip off his armor, then his layers underneath. Ornstein cracks his eyes open and only watches him hungrily, not bothering to disguise his own interest as his hand continues its steady rhythm.

 

When the prince stands as naked as his knight could wish for – save his wrist bracers, which are technically not _fabric_ – Gwynsen approaches him on the bed. One foot remains planted on the ground as he kneels on the bed over him, his hands on Ornstein's thighs, traveling to the knees as he hoists his knight's legs up to brace against his broad shoulders. Ornstein shudders in anticipation as he feels the abruptness of their bodies lining up, the pressure at that junction between his thighs. The prince knows when to take his time, and correspondingly, he knows when delay of the event is torture. Ornstein is so relieved for it. He takes a deep breath, a moment of enforced calm as he eases the tension in his muscles. Gwynsen does not ask before pushing in, his grip firm on Ornstein's waist as his thumbs sink into the skin there, because just like on the field they know every nuance of each others' body language.

 

* * *

 

Ornstein flattens the front of his doublet, adjusting the collar to fit snugly around his neck. There is a blooming mark there at the shoulder, the bite of it too big and too wide, Ornstein thinks, to be the work of anyone but a God. Gwynsen may as well have signed his name there.

 

_He will not risk outright detection,_ he thinks, _but still he skirts around it at every chance. After all that talk of secrecy, it is still as if he wants others to know._

 

Gwynsen himself sits naked on Ornstein's bed, uncharacteristically idle as he leans on one elbow and watches Ornstein make himself impeccable in the mirror. The knight is working on his long red hair, now, although a few strokes of the comb had been enough to sort out most of the chaos his prince had inflicted. Now there is only the matter of his armor.

 

“Tis a farce that thou must wear it even when we do not go to war,” Gwynsen remarks, suddenly. “It is cumbersome.”

 

_Cumbersome_ is not a word Ornstein would think to apply to his distinctive gilt armor, mentally. It does take some time to put on, and to take off, and it is heavy – especially with the long, hanging tassets - but he is used to the weight of it on his body. “I am honored to wear it,” he replies, honestly. “It was the ultimate sign of thy father's esteem.”

 

Gwynsen looks thoroughly unamused to hear this, perhaps unsurprisingly. “Or does the shape of it not please thee?” Ornstein tries again, teasing him just a little.

 

“Oh, tis not that. It does make thee look perfectly fearsome, just as thou art. The lion is thee, absolutely.” The prince finally rolls off the bed, seeing Ornstein pick up his chestplate, and moves to help him don his cuirass. Ornstein accepts the help gratefully – it speeds things along significantly. The prince has always resisted full plate himself, even in times of battle, but he is just as adept in putting Ornstein's armor on his body as he is at removing it. Now Ornstein merely stands, letting Gwynsen do the work. The last few days have been relentless and exhausting; it is nice to be able to entrust even this small task to someone else. “But gifts from my father are ultimately all in service to himself,” the prince mutters from somewhere behind him, as Ornstein feels one greave closing snugly around his shin. “Thou art part of his legacy, now – only another shining jewel in his crown. He had to have thee looking magnificent.”

 

Ornstein sees himself frown in the mirror. “I know the ornamentation serves a purpose, but I do not like the implication thou makest that thy father tries to show me off.” The desire to have him look regal and proud when he stands next to the royal family is something Ornstein can understand, but he does not like the way the prince speaks of it.

 

“Well, it is true,” Gwynsen replies earnestly. “Ciaran, Gough, and Artorias as well, but thee especially. Thou wert the very picture of devotion to the Gods, and then thou becamest the most celebrated dragonslayer, rival to even my father. And when he cannot have the glory for himself, he will try to take thy glory and make it his own.”

 

It still makes something in him uncomfortable to hear Lord Gwyn discussed this way. He tries to steer the focus of conversation elsewhere. “And if it was up to thee, what wouldst thou have me wear, then?” he asks with a touch of flirtation, fully suited now, save for his lion helm, as Gwynsen finishes attaching the heavy tassets to his body. “Wouldst thou be showing me off?”

 

The prince is still naked, save for his metal bracers, and the fact of it does not make him sheepish as he peers down at Ornstein. “If I was thy king, thou wouldst wear whatever made thee most comfortable, my knight,” he replies, all innocence.

 

Ornstein smirks, holding his helm in his hands now. “Then I should like to wear my armor.” And then, just because he can, he leans over and presses a kiss to Gwynsen's bare bicep, enjoying the shiver that goes through the prince's body.

 

“Cruel Ornstein,” Gwynsen pouts as the lion helm descends over Ornstein's satisfied smile, and at last he goes for the clothes he has left in a heap on the floor.

 

* * *

 

It is with a somewhat lightened heart that Ornstein is able to meet with his dragonslayers. They have been disciplined and dutiful, and more ruthless than ever, for it is how their grief takes shape. They practice sparring today to improve their footwork, drilling harder and harder on the basic tenants of knighthood. They test their skill against other men. If there is one thing they have learned, it is to train for the unexpected.

 

Today they are joined by their former comrade, Engold, a decision which Ornstein had not made lightly. He cannot forget the man's cowardice in the face of the illusory, fire-breathing dragon, but by all accounts he had displayed stunning leadership and level-headedness during the assault on the castle, and had even helped bring down the wyvern in the courtyard. _Then, though, that one had breathed lightning,_ Ornstein notes. _Like more and more of the dragonkin do these days. Is it to imitate Lord Gwyn, just as some among us have worked to imitate the dragons...?_

 

“Good work,” he calls out, after another flawless drill. The spearmen trade out amongst themselves, sending in fresh faces to keep the rhythm going.

 

The royal family's dedication to this project is, as one might expect, more fervent than ever, and Ornstein can only make sure his men are equal to that challenge. _They have put their trust in us, to become the most efficient squadron of killers that training can produce._

 

After their session is dismissed, and Ornstein is preparing to head back into the keep, he notices Ladh and Dunn unmistakeably gravitating towards him, trying their hardest to hide the too-innocent expressions on their faces. Most of the men are content to give their commander the distance and respect afforded by his station, but the two elite greatarchers are more chummy than most.

 

“ _Captain_ ,” Ladh calls. “We wanted to congratulate thee on behalf of the rest of the team. We have heard that Lord Gwyn is to recognize his four knights tomorrow.”

 

It is really not strictly proper for them to be conferring congratulations on their superior officer, but Ornstein appreciates the gesture they are making by approaching him: displaying that they still acknowledge him as being one of them, rather than a creature of the royal family.

 

Ornstein nods, but Ladh continues before he can offer the men a simple thanks. “It was an inspiration for us all, hearing how thou and the Prince of Sunlight took down one of the ancient dragons singlehandedly. We are proud to serve under thee, captain.”

 

But here, Ornstein must shake his head. “This kind of honor is symbolic,” he says. “This gesture is meant to display his thanks for all who fought in defense of the castle. This team, without the guidance of its captain, went up against a great wyvern and brought it down with minimal loss of life. Remember that when I am honored tomorrow.”

 

The two knights are clearly a little beside themselves for words, but accept his praise humbly. Ornstein wonders if they think of their fallen comrade as they return to the barracks.

 

It is not until that night that he finds himself alone with his thoughts for the first time in what feels like ages. It is a very unwelcome thing: normally, sleep finds him quickly when he lies down in his bed. A thing has been bothering him, and it is that he still has not spoken to Gwynsen more about what had transpired on the bridge, when the dragon had put something into his head.

 

_We should have talked about it. I should have asked,_ he thinks. _Even if the subject is uncomfortable._ Was it his duty as the prince's loyal knight? As one who he loves, and who also loves him?

 

Gwynsen has told him many times that he wishes for Ornstein to feel like an equal in his presence, particularly when they are alone together. _But I do not simply cease to be his knight, his loyal servant, simply because he wills it. Do I have the right to make him tell me something he does not wish to share, simply because it is my desire to know?_

 

He does not have the answer by the time sleep arrives.

 

* * *

 

Brilliant rays of sun seem to illuminate every corner of Gwyn's cathedral. It is as if it is lit from within, but that would not surprise Ornstein very much, for there is no sight more luminous than the royal family. They are all dressed to splendor, but none more so than Lord Gwyn himself as he stands before the court.

 

At Lord Gwyn's side, his three children: Gwyndolin, looking like the moon viewed in the glow of evening light; Gwynevere, as warm-hued as a sunbeam; Gwynsen like the blazing colors of the dawn. Before them stand Gwyn's four knights, side-by-side.

 

Ornstein had gotten a good look at the gathered crowd behind them as they had come in. He had searched to find indication of the _guests_ Ciaran had spoken of. He thinks he has found them in the form of two cloaked, young-looking women, their faces mostly obscured by the hoods they wear. He has been curiously turning over this detail in his mind for some time, but now is the time to focus on the present.

 

“My most trusted knights,” Lord Gwyn begins, his voice booming across every inch of the cathedral, to make sure his words carry to every ear. “You were long ago sworn into my service, and yet the power of your oaths do not falter. Three nights ago, my castle and my city were set upon by an ancient dragon, and all of its unnatural kin. You did not forget your duty to my people, the citizens of this land, nor did you forget your duty to my family.”

 

Gwyndolin steps forward now, or as near to it as he can. He carries a long, shrouded bundle in his slender arms, though it is unclear what he means to do with it until he stops in the shadow of Gough. Ornstein looks on in interest. “Hawkeye Gough,” the lord's small voice rings out, with surprising power to match that of his father. “Thine arrow did strike true. With an impossible shot, thou hast surely saved my life.” Now he holds up the bundle he carries, and Ornstein can see that they are arrows. “Whenever thou requirest,” he begins, lowering his head as he makes the offering, “I shall bequeath to thee these Moonlight Arrows, crafted for thy greatbow.”

 

Ornstein can feel the surprise radiating off of Gough, surely as he feels it himself. Certainly none of them expected they would be honored with gifts. Nonetheless, the giant maintains his composure as he accepts the parcel graciously. “Thou art kind, my Lord,” he says only. “Twas an honor to serve thee.”

 

With a small, final bow to convey his gratitude, Gwyndolin returns to his father's side, and Gwynevere steps forward next, and it is like the breath of the entire court is stolen away as her beauty, like spring and summer together, comes to the forefront. She stops before Ciaran. “Lord's Blade Ciaran,” she says, her voice ringing out like the tinkling of bells. “My healers and I do not know much of the art of making war, but so often we witness the sacrifices made by those who do. It is thanks to the skill of thyself and thy Blades that we escaped harm, and for that I am forever in thy debt.” She produces something from within her hand, a charm of some sort. “I shall give to thee a talisman used in healing,” she pronounces, “favored by myself and my maidens. We shall be at your disposal always, but in case time is of the essence, thou canst use it in the care of thy comrades.”

 

Ciaran stares down at the talisman in her palms, for a moment perhaps forgetting herself. Then she bows deeply. “My Lady,” she manages only. “I thank thee.”

 

Gwynevere bows to her in turn, and returns to the side of her father.

 

Now Gwynsen steps forward, and Ornstein watches him, spellbound. The prince had betrayed no sign of what was coming when they were together yesterday, and Ornstein finds he is nervous. Adding to his own uncertainty, Gwynsen's laughter and easy nature from the previous day have all but vanished: he looks every bit the firstborn prince, the god of war, solemn and serious. That must be how it appears to most of the court, at least, but Ornstein thinks there is something unnaturally stiff in the way he bears himself. _Is he masking pain? But he did not seem to be hurting when we were together_ , he thinks.

 

“Dragonslayer Ornstein,” Gwynsen calls out, as he stands before him. It is very strange to hear his name, and honorary title besides, spoken so loudly from the prince's lips, for an audience's benefit rather than his own. “My first knight. Long have been the years that we have fought together side-by-side. Thou art my truest companion, and the surest, when we stand united before the jaws of death.” Ornstein sees what he is holding, then, and forgets to breathe.

 

Gwynsen reaches out, and Ornstein does not stop to think as he gives Gwynsen his hand, nor does he react as Gwynsen unhooks the gauntlet from around his knight's wrist. It is slower work than usual. “Thou art well-versed in the art of dragonslaying, using the power of the gods,” Gwynsen continues, his voice even, but his knight can feel the smallest tremble of his hand on Ornstein's own. “This ring shall boost the powers of the sun when thou wieldest them, against the dragons or any other foe.”

 

Ornstein does not have time to behold the glint of it on his finger, or dwell on any other detail, before the gauntlet is being replaced over his hand. He collects his wits as quickly as he is able. “...I thank thee, my Lord,” he says, remembering the setting, as he returns Gwynsen's humble bow.

 

Then he is gone back to his father, and Ornstein feels as though he emerges from a trance, blinking at the bright lights in the cathedral, although his helm shields his eyes from most of it. For a moment he finds it difficult to believe that the ceremony proceeds forward as normal.

 

“And to thee, Knight Artorias,” Lord Gwyn rumbles. Artorias is standing straight, his head tilted to the floor in deference. “Thou who hast alone slain scores of mine enemies! It is known that thou preferest some manner of solitude, but thou art my knight and just as thou hast proven thy loyalty protecting my family, thou shouldst have a loyal companion by thy side as well.”

 

Though a part of him is still reeling from the fact that Gwynsen has just placed a ring upon his finger, in the middle of a cathedral, in front of his father and the entire court, Ornstein cannot help but be confused and curious by Lord Gwyn's speech to Artorias. Then, beside him, he hears the tiniest inhale of breath as Ciaran gasps.

 

Being led into the room is a creature - a juvenile wolf, Ornstein realizes. It is chained to a handler, but when it sees Artorias, it whines softly. _It is the one he has rescued_ , he knows. “Thou hast shown to it thy devotion,” Lord Gwyn says. “And it shall show you devotion in turn. It is meant that one day you should go into battle together.”

 

Artorias surely must be as surprised as the rest of them, for Ornstein cannot imagine Lord Gwyn permitting beasts in the castle. _But then_ , he thinks, _he has always had more respect than most for loyalty, and for beings of intelligence who might otherwise be feared or reviled, as long as they prove useful._ The tall knight reaches down to run his hand down the wolf's fur as it approaches him cautiously, nuzzling into his leg. In spite of its affection for its savior, it is a strong, healthy-looking beast, clearly thriving, and Ornstein is awed. _It is already this big, and after only a few months. How much more ferocious will it become?_

 

“And now you, my gathered friends, have heard of the services rendered to me and my children by my most loyal servants,” Lord Gwyn booms, and his four knights take the cue to turn around and look out into the crowd, so that they can be admired by the masses. “Their devotion is unmatched, but it is due to not only their courage that we emerged so supremely victorious. Many of my valiant knights have sacrificed much in the protection of the castle. We honor them as well.”

 

A solemn chant goes out amongst the crowd. The two hooded women have their heads bowed, perhaps in reverence to the fallen. Something about their long red hair, flowing in waves out of their cloaks, strikes Ornstein as familiar, and he has a feeling he shall soon find out exactly why.

 

“And now, lastly, to all who stand here today,” Lord Gwyn thunders, after a moment has passed, “if you will join me in welcoming our guests! We are visited by a family as high and esteemed as mine own, who grace us with their presence in these halls for the first time in their lives, though they will have heard stories from their Lord Mother: I bring you two accomplished pyromancers, and Daughters of Izalith: Quelaan and her sister Quelaag.”

 

Now the two women in question take a small step forward, as the courtly crowd parts for them in awe. Ornstein is glad his helm masks the keenness of his stare. The Lords do not visit each other: he is not sure he has seen the Witch's daughters besides a brief trip on an envoy to Izalith, at the dawn of their Age of Fire. The sisters lower their hoods and assume looks of humility, as guests.

 

“Thank you, my Lord,” says Quelaag, and Ornstein knows her now, because he remembers the most outspoken and impetuous of the Witch's daughters, memorable even among those women who had all seemed so confident in their abilities. “Long has it been since we have been under one roof. Our mother sends her regards, as well as her sincere wish: that we whose houses have been blessed by the First Flame shall join together our strength to face what is ahead.”

 

The court rumbles loudly, sounds of approval and of discourse among friends in the crowd. Lord Gwyn goes to Quelaan and Quelaag, and takes one hand in each of his own.

 

“Before the court of Anor Londo, I invite you into my family,” Lord Gwyn announces. “And I offer my daughter Gwynevere to be your companion while you are among us.”

 

Gwynevere has already stepped forward. “We shall be as sisters,” she promises, and bows in politeness to their guests.

 

As one, now, mirroring the princess, Ornstein, Ciaran, Gough, and Artorias drop to one knee, and Gwynsen and Gwyndolin bow as well. “We take you under our protection,” Ornstein swears before the court, as is his duty as the captain of the knights.

 

“Thank you for the hospitality,” says the other sister, who must be Quelaan, in a voice that, despite what appear to be her best efforts, comes out a little waveringly. “We are assured that our visit here will be a congenial one.”

 

With that, and a few closing rites, the ceremony is over. Ornstein watches the nobles and courtiers file out of cathedral. The two sisters are speaking quietly amongst themselves, and he gets his first proper look at them. They are beautiful like Lord Gwyn's children are beautiful – in a way that is arresting and unearthly - but their beauty is a different creature. It does not shine like gold or silver, but glistens like blood. Objectively speaking, the two sisters are nearly identical, but their comportment could not be more different, because Quelaag's gaze is as sharp as a blade, her posture straight and tall, while her sister Quelaan shies away from so much as a glance. Even though Ornstein wears his helm, she catches him turned in her direction and looks away in haste, almost as if she is fearful of him. _The lion wears a snarl – does she think it is mirrored on my face underneath?_ he wonders, hoping that for her own good she is kept well away from the more insidious elements of the court. _The Witch has many daughters, renowned pyromancers all, with a reputation for ferocity, and she has sent a wallflower. What could be the reasoning behind it?_

 

Presently, Gwynevere is excitedly outlining her plans for her new sisters. “You shall have to teach me the customs of Izalith,” she is saying. “I have wanted very much to visit your land, but father does not approve our straying from the walls of Anor Londo.” _She means herself and Gwyndolin_ , Ornstein thinks with a hint of regret. Her elder brother knew no such restrictions; but then, he is the only one who was not raised as a daughter. “I shall teach you all of our etiquette, here. It will serve you well if you decide to mingle among the court! Doubtless there are many things that you will find curious, for I'm sure there are things that you do differently in Izalith.”

 

“There doubtless are,” Quelaag agrees. “I thank thee, Sister Gwynevere, for thy kindness in helping us to feel welcomed.”

 

“Yes,” Quelaan says, raising her eyes to meet Gwynevere's. “There is much we should like to see and to know... and _friends_ we should like to meet.”

 

“You will find no shortage of friends in Anor Londo,” Gwynevere laughs. “Isn't that right, brother?”

 

Gwynsen, who stands beside his sister, shares in her easy smile. “My sister speaks the truth,” he agrees. “We shall all benefit from becoming better acquainted with our sisters from Izalith.”

 

“Ah, but thou art the Prince, Gwynsen,” Quelaag says now, turning to face Gwynsen fully, a sparkle of interest on her face. “We have not had the benefit of meeting thee since our arrival. It is a pleasure.”

 

Ornstein watches impassively, as if from far-off, as Gwynsen greets the two sisters formally, pressing a kiss against both of their hands, just under the knuckles. He is able to be separate from his emotions, now that the moment from the ceremony has released his sanity from its clutches and left him as only a dutiful knight again. “The pleasure is mine,” the prince returns naturally. “It has been a long time since we last saw each other.”

 

“A very long time,” Quelaan chimes in, too quickly, but it is charming for her eagerness.

 

“Is there anything in particular you would like to see right away?” Gwynevere asks. “The sun is still high, and time is ours.”

 

Quelaag does not hesitate. Her answer surprises even Ornstein.

 

“We should like to see the dragon.”

 

The air in the room stills. But, lightning-quick as he is on his feet, Gwynsen does not give Gwynevere time to falter. “Will just the head suffice?” he asks, seriously. “The rest has been... dispersed.”

 

Quelaag, and her sister, nod after a brief glance in each others' direction.

 

“Then my first knight and I will show you,” the prince promises. “And then we shall relinquish you to Sister Gwynevere.”

 

“Oh, good,” Gwynevere sighs. “There is much I think we shall enjoy talking about.”

 

* * *

 

It is the strangest discrepancy between the bright and light of the cathedral, and the dark of the castle's underbelly. The four of them in their odd party make their way down the narrow stairwell, Gwynsen leading the way with the Witch's daughters close behind, and Ornstein bringing up the rear.

 

The evidence of many dragonslayings lurk within these corridors. There are enough heads down here, Ornstein believes, to adorn every wall of Gwyn's keep if the old Lord so desired. Although he is several paces behind Gwynsen, he feels a shadow pass over the prince as they walk beneath the heads of the wyvern pair they had slain some months before. Ornstein finds himself wondering if there are remnants of his own blood still spattered in the golden's mouth. He briefly locks eyes with the wyvern's lifeless gaze; it is a strange feeling, knowing how close they had come to stepping into the grave together. At this very moment, had things gone a little differently – had the healers been just a little slower, a bit less competent - Ornstein too could have been entombed somewhere in this castle. What would that world be like? How actively would the royal family still mourn him – or, like these wyverns, would he be left alone in the dark, reduced to a memory to be recounted at the dining table?

 

They reach, now, the wide room wherein Haaluun's gaze – the gaze of an ancient, ageless dragon – rests eternally on a plain stone wall. The dragon's head has been severed from its neck just below the jawline, a clean cut, likely the work of Gwynsen's swordspear, or perhaps one of the giants. Quelaag immediately goes to it.

 

“Thou art interested,” the prince observes, with a hint of amusement, as he joins her by the dragon's wicked teeth. “Though surely thou hast seen thy fair share of fallen dragons, in the age past.”

 

“As thou sayest, twas an age ago,” Quelaag returns slyly. She is peering intently at the latticework of the dragon's scaly hide, just over its lip. “At the time, our interest was only in killing them as quickly as possible.”

 

“Have thine interests shifted, then?” Gwynsen asks, in the same easy tone, but Ornstein can sense the carefulness which is in him now. “Or does thy mother dabble in particular sciences again?”

 

The thing which they now called pyromancy, Ornstein knows, is the eventual fruit borne from the Witch's longstanding obsession with creating and manipulating fire – just as the dragons did. He remembers a little bit about rumors – the Witch studying the dragons, attempting to learn from them. It is the kind of thing Lord Gwyn would normally respect, most likely – but Lord Gwyn, a man of stony prejudices, reviles the dragons.

 

Quelaag looks at Gwynsen, now. “It is a long time since anyone in Izalith has gotten a look at one such _fresh_ corpse,” she says, more or less confirming at least one theory.

 

She continues circling the dragon's head. Right now she must be sating her curiosity, first and foremost, for Ornstein does not know how much can be gleaned scientifically from this distance or speed. He watches the two of them watch the dragon, insensible of how much time elapses.

 

“Thine armor is beautiful,” says a small voice suddenly, next to him.

 

Ornstein had almost forgotten that Quelaan stood beside him still, a ways apart from her sister and the prince. “Thou art kind,” he responds, the words coming easy to him, for he speaks fluently the language of flattery developed by the noble houses, “but it is none to compare against the refreshing beauty of thineself and thy Lady sister.”

 

This seems to fluster the girl more, and Ornstein wonders if flattery in turn was the right move, even if it was surely the expected one. “Forgive me if I trespass,” he amends.

 

“No, it is alright,” she interjects. “It is just that- that I have never been sent away from home before.” She almost sounds bold, now. “It is all so very new and exciting. And so much like the tales. Lord Gwyn and his golden palace and golden knight!”

 

“Is that so?” Ornstein asks, amusement creeping into his voice. “I hope thou wilt not find life in the palace to be intimidating, and I do not think thou shalt find it foreign. Lord Gwyn enjoys the formality of ceremony. Is it not done quite the same way in thy home?”

 

“No,” Quelaan says at once. “Mother disdains frivolities like that which is for appearance's sake-!” Now she seems to catch the implications of what she has said. “B-bu that is not to say that Lord Gwyn is-!”

 

“It is alright,” Ornstein spares her the rest. “I shall not find offense in learning of thy family! If things are done differently there as they are here, it is to suit thy Lord Mother's style of governance, which is within her rights.”

 

Quelaan looks as though there is much more, actually, that she would like to say about Izalith if Ornstein would be so kind as to listen, but her sister rescues them both, arriving with the prince. “-but we shall be here a while yet,” Quelaag is saying. “And in the meantime, we should not alienate my sister or thy loyal knight.”

 

“You were speaking of studying the dragons?” Ornstein inquires, though perhaps it is not his place. Quelaag nods. “May I ask what brings rise to the occasion? Thy mother is already skilled in the art of manipulating fire... if there is more she wishes to learn-”

 

“It is true, that she knows the _basics_ of creating fire,” Quelaag says only. “But there is more that she may wish to know someday.”

 

“I have always thought it interesting,” Gwynsen begins, “that the naming of our Age of Fire commemorates the near-extinction of the dragons, who were masters of fire since long before the arrival of what we call the First Flame.” Ornstein looks at him puzzlingly, wondering what implications he makes with this statement.

 

But Quelaag nods. “Mother feels similarly as thou dost.” She looks over at her sister, and Ornstein gets the distinct impression that there is something they do not yet share with their hosts.

 

If there are questions yet to be asked, no one is permitted to ask them. “But let us not steal away too long from our new sister,” Quelaag continues. “My prince, will we see thee tonight at dinner?”

 

“You shall see me whenever you like,” Gwynsen declares. “Remember that I am your brother now.”

 

“Of course,” she replies, slowly, as a small, unknowable smile creeps across her face. “Now, sister?”

 

Quelaan looks as though she's been shaken out of a small private reverie. “O-of course. I thank thee for the pleasure of thy company... my prince,” she manages. But her eyes trail over Ornstein as she turns to follow her sister.

 

* * *

 

The dinner is meant for Lord Gwyn's family and his guests, so Ornstein does not expect to attend, but he is just finished removing his armor that night when the messenger arrives.

 

“Sir Ornstein,” the man bows. “I am sent to announce that thou art invited to dine with the Lord's family tonight.”

 

That is a surprise. He looks back to his armor on the trestle table, wondering. “As a guest,” the man clarifies, sensing his question. _Not as a guard or even as the knight captain. So I shall not be needed in my armor._ “Thank you,” he tells the man, who bows again and leaves him.

 

It has been some time since Ornstein has shown up at a formal function as something other than the legendary golden dragonslayer. The occasions have been few. _Perhaps it is as Gwynsen says_ , he thinks with a touch of displeasure. _I wear the armor even when it is not needed, to be shown off. It feels strange to know I shall not be wearing it tonight._

 

He looks down at the doublet and trousers he wears. They were intended to be worn as underclothes beneath his armor, and though they are not unpresentable, they will not do for a dinner with the Lord and his family and guests. He strips them off hastily, and goes to his wardrobe to find his best finery, when the unexpected glint of the new ring on his finger catches his eye.

 

All at once, the memory of the ceremony floods back to him and he is thankful to be alone in his room, for he is sure there is a bloom of scarlet on his cheeks. (That is one unexpected benefit of wearing his armor – Ornstein may be able to control the way his emotions play out on his facial features, but he has never been able to control the easy way his skin colors.) There is nothing so unusual about the gift itself, he tells himself; the royal family bequeaths enchanted rings to their devoted followers often enough. It is not as though it were accompanied by a _proposal_ – he banishes that meddlesome thought - but the way Gwynsen's hand had trembled as he held Ornstein's in his own...

 

_This is folly_ , he scolds himself. It is a dangerous avenue to go down, mentally. Still, he cannot help the tingle of thrill that goes through him as he realizes how visible the ring will be on his finger, and how, as a royal gift, he will be _expected_ to wear it. He swallows that down as best he can and begins the work of dressing himself.

 

The doublet he has chosen is the color of wine, with a lacework of golden accents trailing all the way down to the sleeves, and simple, small gold buttons on the front collar. It compliments the color of his hair well, and he knows he cuts a striking picture when he wears it.

 

He departs after a final few glimpses in the mirror, ensuring that his hair is perfectly combed, and wonders whether his own invitation to the dinner will be the only unexpected element tonight.

 

* * *

 

Lord Gwyn's family dining hall is built for himself, his children, and a small number of private guests, but it is worlds apart from the hall given to his knights for their personal use. Though it is intended for such an intimate number, it is a wide open room, grandiose while still feeling sequestered and secure. Ornstein has been a guest here a number of times – primarily when he was ascending the ranks to eventually become one of Lord Gwyn's handpicked elite knights, as well as the first knight of his eldest son.

 

When they are all assembled – Ornstein observes that apart from Quelaag and Quelaan, he is the only other guest in attendance – Lord Gwyn bids them to sit, as he takes the head of the table, next to his two youngest. Ornstein observes that his own seat is across from Gwynsen, and beside Quelaan. She and her sister have been given seats facing each other in the middle of the table, giving them equal access to all of the royal family.

 

After the first course has been brought out, and their meal formally begun, Gwynevere initiates the conversation. “It is wonderful to have sisters in the palace,” she proclaims. “We have had so much good conversation. It is right that our families should be friends.”

 

“Sister Gwynevere has made us feel properly at home,” Quelaag acknowledges, giving the Goddess to her right a fond and courteous smile. “We have already seen much of the palace. It is truly a divine place.”

 

Lord Gwyn nods his solemn approval, and Ornstein notes with amusement how easily the path to his good favor is won. “It has been many years since I have heard tidings from your mother. I am glad to hear that she wishes for a renewal of our faith towards each other.”

 

“Indeed,” Quelaag continues, smiling as she takes another bite of the suckling pig, the juices making her lips glisten even more ruby red than before. “She wishes our families united in whatever manner available.”

 

Ornstein's eyes widen just the slightest bit, in spite of his heightened self-control. Across from him, Gwynsen displays no reaction at all. Ornstein looks to Lord Gwyn, studying his face in response to this statement. “Much is possible with time,” the Lord says, cryptically, appearing to scrutinize his guests in turn. Quelaan is staring hard down at her food. “The strength of our forces would do much to compliment the other, and I believe times of war may be upon us soon. But there will be ample opportunity to discuss these matters later.”

 

The sisters exchange comments about the food, praising its freshness, its succulence, the exotic flavors that make it taste, somehow, different from back at home. Gwynevere and Gwyndolin offer questions about Izalith, and upon hearing the answers, express polite, but earnest wishes to see, hear, and taste such things in person.

 

“I have often heard it praised,” Ornstein offers, after Quelaan has just told them of her fondness for the pipe music played near her home. “A few of the courtiers cannot resist such entertainments. I know some have been petitioning to have these instruments sent here.”

 

“Then they need say no more. We will have it arranged,” Quelaag says with a grin. “Sister Gwynevere has said it best: our families are friends, and your court shall know it. And I shall take the opportunity to thank thee, Sir Ornstein, for joining us. Thou art just as we pictured underneath thine armor.”

 

It is a bold statement, so bold that Ornstein must once again fight to keep the color off his cheeks. _They spoke of me in private and are now telling the room of it. Manners, too, must be different in Izalith._ But Quelaan looks embarrassed, too. “Am I to take that as a compliment?” he asks, “And assume that you are responsible for my being here tonight?”

 

“Indeed,” she replies easily, not the least bit shy. “Thyself and thy prince were very courteous to myself and my dear sister earlier. We had a wish to see thee again.”

 

“It is kind of thee to say so,” he acknowledges, inclining his head in just the slightest bow of deference in her direction, which seems to leave her tickled. He cannot forget his place as a guest among Lords, even in a setting like this one.

 

The conversation shifts in a different direction. Gwynsen, Ornstein realizes, has said very little the whole evening. He appears to be attentive, making all the right facial expressions when stories are told, but offering nothing to advance the conversation. Among guests, his behavior may even be read as sullenness. Ornstein wills him to speak, for he dreads the effect this will have on Lord Gwyn, and in turn, what the old Lord will say to his son, later. The relationship between the two always borders on tumultuous, but strangely, he perceives that things have been somehow worse since the attack on the castle.

 

It is just past dessert when Gwynsen rises from his seat. “I pray you shall all excuse me,” he says, making obeisances to his guests. “I have other matters to attend to. I hope to see you all on the morrow.”

 

Ornstein watches him go, helplessly, feeling something like a hollowness in his heart to know that he cannot follow or be with him. _If I were here in the function of Gwynsen's knight_ – but no, for tonight he is here as Lord Gwyn's guest. As it is, it is all he can do to maintain the carefully neutral look on his face.

 

Lord Gwyn is greatly displeased. Ornstein knows it in spite of the lord's unaffected manner, waving off his son as if he is a bothersome fly not to be trifled with anymore. “Please continue, dear Quelaag,” Gwynevere urges, and Quelaag takes up her story again as if nothing has gone amiss.

 

They stay late through the hours speaking around the Lord's table, and the golden knight plays his role as the courteous servant well. By the time they all part for the night, the two sisters have declared them all to be friends, and Ornstein has had one of the finest meals he's enjoyed in quite some time. For almost any man, it would be enough. But still his heart aches, preoccupied with all the things he yearns for and cannot have.

 

* * *

 

 

The following day, he has only had time to make his morning appointments and is holed away in the knight barracks looking through reports when an unfamiliar knock sounds against the door. It is not the brisk _one-two_ rap trained into the knights, nor is it the distinctive knock of anyone familiar to him. Ornstein frowns. “Come in,” he calls.

 

He is fully unprepared for the sight of the Princess of Sunlight, as she eases her way into the little room, at once seeming to bring a celestial glow to its simple stone walls and unglamourous wooden fixtures. At once, he stands and bows. “My Lady,” he greets. He is not sure whether to point out how unexpected her appearance is. “To what business do I owe the pleasure of thy visit?”

 

“Ah, Sir Ornstein, thou art within indeed! I am happy to have found thee.” Gwynevere beams at him as she takes a seat in the small, stark chair by the door. _She instantly makes it seem as natural as a throne._ “And thou mayest call me by my name, dear knight! In fact, I wish for it. For thou art as near to me as my own brothers, after all this time.”

 

Ornstein braces himself for how he must reply. He remembers how hard it was, initially, to use the prince's given name with him. “Yes... Gwynevere,” he nods, the name sounding uncouth coming from his own tongue, but it makes the princess smile to hear it.

 

“You were very kind and charming to our guests. I wanted to thank thee.” The princess looks wistful now. “Would that my brother Gwynsen had been half as attentive. He has been, perhaps, changed, lately. Something is intense about him... wouldst thou agree?”

 

As the prince in question's first knight, Ornstein hesitates to say anything that might be like speaking ill of his master. _But it is only that I am concerned for him, and so is his sister._ “There is something a little different,” he agrees. “But I am not sure it is so unusual after what we have been through with the attack on the castle...”

 

Gwynevere makes an assenting noise. “Thou art his dear friend. As long as he has thee, I am sure all will be well with him. But I am here to entrust to thee the care of a different friend.” Surprised, Ornstein sits up straighter, attentive. “Our guest Quelaan has many questions about our castle, and about knighthood, and all manner of things I am not well-versed in. And she has expressed a wish to talk to thee again.”

 

Ornstein must hesitate here, for Gwynevere adds, “I have tried to get her and dear Ciaran to be friends, but I am afraid she is easily intimidated.” At this, he cannot suppress a smile.

 

“It would be my honor,” he replies, though he is busy making arrangements in his mind. _The reports can be delegated. I can spare the hour._

 

As they leave the barracks together, Ornstein catches sight of Engold, dutifully helping coach a fellow knight on his footwork. “Engold,” he calls. “There is a stack of reports in my office for thee to read. Summarize them as briskly as possible to me when I return.”

 

The surprise on the man's face is as palpable as his joy. “Yes, captain.”

 

* * *

 

Quelaan awaits Ornstein by the east wing of the castle. “Sir Ornstein,” she calls, sounding hopeful underneath her usual hesitant waver. “I am sorry to take thee away from thy duties...”

 

“Speak not of it, my Lady. It is my pleasure to walk with thee a while.”

 

And with that, Quelaan falls into step beside him, and they cut an idling path through the castle, adopting a leisurely pace as the Witch's daughter absorbs the sights around them with the awe of an outsider.

 

“Where is thy sister?” Ornstein inquires after a moment, curious.

 

Quelaan shakes her head. “Quelaag attends some some other business for Mother.” She looks at the floor now, a slight coloration on her cheeks. “Sister Gwynevere has been very kind to me, but I do fear of occupying all of her time. She must be very busy...”

 

Ornstein does not know whether that can be truthfully said. He remembers stories from Gwynsen, of when his sister was younger, and had longed after adventure. _She really became bratty for a time_ , Gwynsen had said. _But like everyone in father's life she soon realized he had a plan for her, and it was easiest to abide by that plan._ Ornstein wonders if Gwynevere is truly happy in her role as a sequestered maiden, in her domain of healing and playing host.

 

They walk for a while. Quelaan asks many curious questions, about the reliefs carved into the stone, about doors leading off to other places, about the tinkering they hear of the giant blacksmith as he toils away by the entrance to the keep. Ornstein satisfies her curiosity to the best of his ability. Though it is hard to shut off his natural impulse to stay busy, he finds it is nice to have a chance to relax. The last few days have not ceased their strangeness, and talking of castles and knights and stories is a simple and diverting thing.

 

* * *

 

By the time Ornstein returns to the knight barracks, he finds a curious sight: several of his dragonslayers attended by a palace healer.

 

“Captain,” one of his spearmen greets, half a wince, as he approaches. Even as they speak, the man's dislocated shoulder is being set back in place and soothed with a miracle. All around them the men look battered, utterly exhausted.

 

“What's happened?” Ornstein questions, observing the unhurried nature of the healer and the sapped spirits of the men. “Why so many sparring injuries?”

 

It turns out, the explanation to it all is presently sitting up on the balcony overlooking the training fields. Ornstein excuses himself right away to go to him.

 

* * *

 

The hour is growing ripe, but still the sun hangs comfortably above the trees on the horizon as Ornstein emerges from the steps onto the high terrace. “I hear thou hast been sparring all morning,” he observes, as he approaches Gwynsen. “Dost thou come with a reason for so brutally beating half thine own dragonslayers?”

 

As a God, Gwynsen does not easily show signs of exhaustion, but he is slick with a sheen of dried sweat as he sits cross-legged on the balcony, staring out “Ah, Ornstein,” he greets, vaguely. “Thou wert not available when I came asking. I have heard one of our guests has entreated thee for some of thy time.”

 

“She is one with a curious mind,” Ornstein acknowledges, letting his unanswered question go for now. “She had many questions about knighthood and about the history of the castle.”

 

“Do not play a fool, my knight, it does not become thee,” Gwynsen admonishes him, a hint of teasing in his voice as he gestures for Ornstein to join him. “Thou knowest she wished only to hear thy voice.”

 

“And it does not become a prince to act jealous, _my Lord_ ,” Ornstein teases in turn, as he manages to bring himself down into a sitting position on the stone. It is somewhat difficult when he wears his armor. “She is only dazzled by her new surroundings and unused to palace flattery. A maiden with a crush, that is all.”

 

He gazes out at the sight that has Gwynsen so captivated, though he knows it well himself. The view of Lordran is pure inspired majesty, the sunset seeming to gently touch every gentle slope and curve of the earth. They can see the subtle details of the holy parish below them, not far from the bridge that leads to the fortress.

 

“And what is thine opinion of our new guests?” Ornstein asks, although he is sure he has gleaned some of the answer. It is an easier topic, because he knows simple jealousy to be the least of the prince's troubles.

 

Gwynsen gives half a laugh. “It is clear the witch did not know what flavor I preferred, so she has sent both a blushing maid and a temptress.”

 

Ornstein thinks this assessment is very unkind of him – after all, it is impossible to know how much either girl has had a say in her current situation. But the protest dies on his tongue. He cannot voice this aloud.

 

“It is all a great charade,” Gwynsen utters, lost in himself. “They dangle a marriage alliance with us before they will share what really concerns them. I am only to be used as a foothold into my father's secrets. Meanwhile there at dinner thou sits, the image of beauty, wearing my ring, and the Witch's daughter looks at thee as if thou art uncharted territory to claim. How funny it is...”

 

Ornstein is quiet for a moment, knowing he could not hide the red on his cheeks even if he tried. And anyway there is no witness to it – Gwynsen does not look over to see it. “Is it not enough to know I am thy knight?” he asks, quietly.

 

“No. Tell me it is not enough for thee, either.”

 

Ornstein is unequipped to handle this question. _Is it enough to be Gwynsen's knight?_ He _cannot_ answer it, because it is a fantasy, and Ornstein does not deal in fictions. He is the firstborn prince's knight and his dragonslayer and his most trusted friend and so many other things besides, but he cannot go to him before his father, or stake a claim on him when other forces in their lives talk obliquely of marriage. “It is the only way I shall ever have thee,” he replies, finally, surprised at the bitterness in his own voice, thick and raw. “And so it is more than enough.”

 

The prince makes a sound in response, but Ornstein cannot decipher it. He seizes upon the opportunity, the chance to give voice to the thing that looms urgent in his mind. “A few nights ago, when thou layest weak in bed,” he begins, keeping his tone even. “The dragon... we have not spoken of it. Tell me thou art alright.”

 

But Gwynsen is silent. The moment seems to stretch out into infinity, as endless to the senses as Lordran itself as the prince contemplates it.

 

“I know on many occasions when thou goest to spar so ferociously,” Ornstein pushes, “it is because thou art trying to escape some other thing in thy mind. To force it out, perhaps.”

 

Gwynsen turns to him now, a small, chilling smile on his face. “I suspect half the men who kill for me and my family do it to take out some petty frustration on an unwitting target. Cannot their prince do the same?”

 

He is evading, as skillfully as when they face off against each other. But Ornstein will follow his movements. “ _Tell me,_ ” his knight commands, again surprised by an unexpected quality in his own voice. He leans over Gwynsen, desperation transforming the budding fear he feels. _This is not my place. No matter what, we are not truly equals. I cannot. I should not_. “Please,” he pleads, seeing the pain haunting the prince's face. “Thou must tell me what troubles thee. For us both, tell me.”

 

Gwynsen holds his gaze. Ornstein does not back down. He watches various expressions flicker across his face, and does not shy away from them even when the look in Gwynsen's eyes becomes wild.

 

The moment drags long before the prince finally breaks their tense reverie. He shakes his head, gently, turning to look at the stone below them. There is a lost look in his eyes, one that troubles Ornstein to see. _He cannot. Whatever it is, he cannot say it to me._

 

Then, “I will,” Gwynsen promises. _Later_ , goes unsaid. But that much is enough.

 

Ornstein merely nods. “Wouldst thou like me to go? Or shall I stay beside thee a while?”

 

“Stay,” Gwynsen bids. His gaze has returned to the fields of Lordran, again. “It is a beautiful time of day, is it not?”

 

* * *

 

The following days bring uncharacteristically stormy weather in Anor Londo. Ornstein listens intently to reports on the comings and goings of the castle.

 

The silver knights, of course, do not leave their post, no matter the weather – but the use of miracles has been employed to give them more visibility. He hears that games of strategy are being played in Gwynevere's drawing rooms – the kind that simulate war and chance. As a formality, he has been invited to partake, although of course he cannot accept when he still has duties to run. Ciaran, it seems, has accepted the invitation graciously, but that is no surprise – Lord Gwyn's guests are there in attendance, and it is her duty to know what they are thinking at all times. _Perhaps she has finally won Quelaan's friendship_ , Ornstein wonders with a smile.

 

He walks alone to the end of the long hallway, leading to the ramparts of the castle, when he spots Artorias – and Sif, too, the both of them headed in the opposite direction.

 

“Artorias,” Ornstein calls in greeting, noting the other knight's tense body language. “Does something trouble thee?”

 

Sif is now focused hard on Ornstein, her eyes boring deep into him. The fact of it does not make him comfortable, but he knows he can take on a wolf if he has to. _I pray he knows what he is doing._ “This weather brings ill things,” Artorias murmurs, shaking his head. “It makes me uneasy.”

 

Ornstein tries to laugh, as well he can with a beast still staring so intensely into him. “And thy companion, does it bother her as well?”

 

“Sif is from the wild place outside our castle,” Artorias replies. “I am sure the fact of rain or thunder itself does not trouble her, but I believe she can sense something as I can.”

 

“Or she picks up on thy body language,” Ornstein points out. Sif whines a little. “She is very attached to thee.”

 

The other knight finally gives a small laugh, now. “Lord Gwyn was right,” he says. “It is good to have her always with me. I hope that we shall make a fine team, but... perhaps it is not right to go into battle with one who I love so dearly.”

 

“Why not?” They have crossed each other in the hall, now, and stop along opposite walls to face each other. Sif casts a nervous look out an arched window. “Is it not best to go to war next to someone who one can trust with their own life?”

 

Artorias is quiet for a moment now, his thoughtful nature showing as he searches for words. Ornstein senses he has gone to some dark memory, for a shadow seems to cross over him.

 

“Captain,” he mutters. “Several months ago... on the campaign to that wyvern nest.”

 

_Those wyverns again. Slain though they are, they are constantly reappearing to me._ “Go on,” Ornstein urges, quietly.

 

“From on our side of the field, we heard the death cry of the golden wyvern who fell by thy hand,” Artorias continues, his mood dark. “And the red wyvern, it cried and mourned... and felt pain. I do not know if they were twins, or companions, or a mated pair, but...”

 

“They had a bond,” Ornstein acknowledges. He has heard all of this from Gwynsen before.

 

Artorias nods, now, but does not say anything more. The silence between them stretches long. This is not such an unusual thing, but it is not a comfortable silence. Sif's whining does not help matters.

 

“If there is something thou wishest to say to me,” Ornstein begins, unable to tolerate this tension between them any longer, “then say it. I refuse to dance around it any longer.” Artorias casts a surprised look up at him. “Be blunt,” he encourages, again. “Do not censor thyself.”

 

A bolt of thunder makes the stone walls around them a glowing white for a moment, and now Sif gives a small, pitiful howl. Artorias looks down at her, and Ornstein briefly thinks he shall not answer.

 

“Captain,” he says, his voice barely perceptible above the constant murmur of rain. “What is thy true relationship with the firstborn prince?”

 

It is the question he has been baiting, but Ornstein still finds it difficult to answer. He swallows past the lump in his throat, cycling through several versions of the truth. _I could say simply that we are lovers, but he knows that much already._ In fact, all that which Artorias knows condenses down to the fact that they lie together, nothing more.

 

“We are romantically attached,” he manages, forcing himself to speak his words clearly.

 

“And that is the sole reason thou liest with him?”

 

Ornstein resists the urge to look up, sharply. It is tempting to be insulted by Artorias' question – but, he realizes, it is not an unfair one to ask, perhaps, and he did ask the other knight not to censor himself. He gives a curt nod.

 

“I go to bed with him because I am in love with him,” he murmurs, making the words as stark as he can. “...And not for any other reason. And I cannot truly speak for him, but I believe on his end... it is the same.”

 

Artorias nods, slowly, considering. “I thank thee for thy honesty, captain,” he says after another moment has passed. “I sense that it was not easily spoken. I am honored by thy trust... and I am sorry if I have made things uneasy between us.”

 

Ornstein waves it away with one hand. “The best apology thou canst offer is to never breach this topic again,” he says, honestly. “But I am grateful it has cleared the air between us.” He does feel lighter, now, one source of tension having resolved itself at last. “Where art thou headed? Perhaps-”

 

Sif's bellowing howl interrupts them both – and then they hear the bloodcurtling scream. Artorias reaches for his greatsword, and Ornstein's hands are immediately on his spear. The wolf takes off bounding down the hallway. “Come, captain,” Artorias urges, tense, and Ornstein follows.

 

What greets them when they turn the corner into the knight's barracks is a frightful sight.

 

The silver knights stand in a circle, stunned. None of them move to draw their weapons, even though one of their fellows lies dead in the center of the room. His blood paints the walls, still glistening and new. On her knees near the carnage, fresh gore tainting her beautiful court dress, is Quelaag. _She must have broken away from the game in Gwynevere's room,_ Ornstein thinks numbly, an unimportant stray thought as the rest of the scene scrambles for coherency in his mind.

 

“One of thine own soldiers,” the Witch's daughter murmurs, her tone one of someone shell-shocked. “And thou hast cut him down without a trial. Is that how things are done in Lord Gwyn's court?”

 

But standing above, making no move to hide the way his swordspear drips more freshly-spilt blood into the defiled stone, Gwynsen does not answer her. His eyes pass over the room. He sees Ornstein and Artorias in the entryway, but does not greet them.

 

“This comrade of yours is the one who let the intruders into the castle,” he says, only, to the assembled crowd, as he stands over the dead man who is unable to defend himself. “He is responsible for the deaths of many of your fellows, and the reason why my own brother and sister were nearly murdered.”

 

The silver knights do not challenge him. Ornstein turns these words over again and again in his head, numbly. _They determined who the traitor was in the castle? Now, after all this time?_ Had Ciaran found out? How long had they all known? Was this Lord Gwyn's idea of justice: cutting a man down without giving him a chance to tell his own side of the story, _and_ sending his own son to do it? Something about it does not sit right with Ornstein. _No_ , he thinks suddenly. _Gwynsen would not condemn a man to death on the wishes of his father_. Yet here he stands, covered in the blood of a silver knight sworn to the service of his family. Ornstein feels ill.

 

“Gwynsen,” he calls out, suddenly, cutting into the thick tension in the room. He has forgotten not to use his name, but that fact feels unimportant, now. Gwynsen turns to look at him.

 

“I must confer with my first knight,” he says, to the silver knights gathered. There is something still unruly and dangerous in his voice, and it must strike fear into all of them. “Give him a burial fit for a comrade, if you wish. But do not question the truth that I have given you.”

 

As he follows the prince out of the room, Ornstein chances a last look at the knights. Among them is Artorias, still with the heft of his greatsword in his hand, as if he is still looking for a foe to fight, but does not know who it truly is.

 

* * *

 

They emerge onto the castle walls, the forest yawning hungrily beneath them, seemingly a living beast as the trees whip around in the tumultuous wind. The rain batters Ornstein's armor, and he removes his helm, though it leaves him squinting. He waits for the prince to speak, but he does not.

 

“Art thou sure?” he asks, suddenly, not knowing where they go, but feeling suddenly that he must make Gwynsen stop in his tracks or he will keep going and not wait for him. “When thou chose that man to die-”

 

“I know he is guilty,” Gwynsen growls, “for I saw him betray us with mine own eyes.”

 

This gives Ornstein pause. The shock wracks through his bones. _“What?”_

 

“No, I was not there myself. But I have _seen_ it.” The prince whips around to look at him, now, a streak of pain in his face. “The memories given to me by the dragon... Ornstein. They are so much more than us. So much more and we were blind to it.”

 

“Speak clearly!” Ornstein demands, his voice raw with emotion as he catches Gwynsen's wrist, not even thinking about it now. “Tell me what thou meanst, and do not pretend like I cannot understand thee! _Thou must give me a chance to understand_ , my prince!” Desperation has entered him now, gripping at his heart.

 

“...I'm sorry.” Gwynsen shakes his head, looking angry with himself as he considers something far off. _How he can see past this rain I do not know, but then I am not divine like he is._ “I was selfish, Ornstein. Things are simple when we are together. I... used our time together to comfort myself, though I knew thou wouldst hate me for it in the end.”

 

“Do not put words in my mouth, my prince.” Ornstein argues, tired of these games. “I am thy faithful knight. Thou knowest well that I can never hate thee.”

 

They pass underneath an arch, and cease their walking. Ornstein must no longer squint to keep the gale out of his face. Gwynsen reaches over and eases one of his long red hairs back behind his ear, having been whipped out of place by the storm. Ornstein lets him, his jaw set as he struggles to maintain his composure.

 

“It is not only their own memories the dragons carry,” Gwynsen murmurs. “The true dragons... when they take on thralls as this one did, they can see through their eyes, as well.”

 

“That is a curious trait,” Ornstein replies, quietly.

 

“One we never considered,” the prince agrees. “And then there are sparks of time that I see, times before the First Flame. Ornstein, with all my heart I wish the dragons dead for what they have inflicted upon my family and upon this land. But there are questions I have... Questions I do not think I can rest until I know the answers to.”

 

Ornstein freezes. His mind is piecing together what the prince is implying. “What does that mean?” he asks, stiffly.

 

“There is an image of a place in my mind,” the prince replies. “And without cause, without even knowing why... I know that I must go there.”

 

His first knight cannot help the reaction that goes through him at these words. “Leave the castle?” he asks, sharply. “When?”

 

“Now." Gwynsen's voice is soft, but resolute. “I know now is the time. My Lord father knows nothing of any of this, and will not take well to my explanation for slaying one of his knights. It is now or not at all.”

 

Somewhere within himself, Ornstein actually doubts very much that Lord Gwyn is totally oblivious to the fact of Gwynsen's recent troubles, for the old Lord is even craftier than his son likes to give him credit for - but he does not voice this out loud. “Well then I am going too,” he decides, leaving no room for question.

 

“Thou cannot.” Gwynsen puts one hand on his face, cupping his cheek. Ornstein cannot stop the silent flow of tears, now, and though he has his pride, he does not make effort to disguise them, but wears them plainly on his face. “I am sorry.”

 

“Thou toldst me thou lovest me as an equal,” Ornstein manages, the words sounding hopelessly uncouth. “In my rational mind I knew it was not nor could ever be the truth, but sometimes in my heart thou may have coaxed me into believing it. It was an error of my pride to think I could ever elevate myself to thy station, even when we were alone together.”

 

Gwynsen shakes his head, the pain ever more apparent on his features now. “I wish thou wouldst not speak that way, but how can I command thee otherwise?” he asks, clearly bitter towards himself. “The least of it I can offer thee now is the truth. Ornstein, in my heart I dearly wish there were no place thou couldst not follow me. But I need thee here, now more than ever. If thou camest with me...” He shakes his head, perhaps searching for another angle. “It is only thee that I trust,” the prince says, after a moment, the unbelievable words hitting Ornstein's ears numbly.

 

“That cannot be,” his knight argues, at once. “There is thy sister Gwynevere, and brother Gwyndolin-”

 

“I love them both deep in my heart, and I know they do love me too,” Gwynsen replies, his anguish clear, “but if it came to a choice between me and father...”

 

Ornstein looks at him strangely, now. “It is only thee that has chosen me every time,” Gwynsen continues. “It is only thee who I trust would choose me over him.”

 

Ornstein knows, somewhere deep down, that it is wildly uncivilized of Gwynsen to infringe such a choice upon him. He has sworn an oath to both the prince and his father. The two are not at war with each other, and yet he is being asked to choose between them. His honor as a knight cannot allow for such a thing, even if he loves Gwynsen with every aspect of his soul.

 

But put another way, could he ever act against Gwynsen? Take up arms against him? Betray him? He knows at once he could not, not under any circumstance, not even if ordered to by Lord Gwyn.

 

“I am sorry for what happened at the cathedral.” Gwynsen murmurs. “ I should have prepared thee for what I meant to do. I thought it would give me pleasure to give thee my ring in front of so many witnesses, but like with everything else in this castle it was a farce. It was meaningless.”

 

He reaches out for Ornstein's gauntleted hand, his fingers ghosting just over where the new ring sits on his hand. “When I return,” Gwynsen begins, “I shall ask thee to gift that ring to someone else, some other knight that thou trustest. I shall give thee a true betrothal ring to replace it.”

 

Ornstein shakes his head in disbelief, the tears coming stronger in spite of his best efforts. “Do not tease me that way, _my Lord_ ,” he utters, quietly. “Thou knowest it is so far outside the realm of what is possible. To pretend otherwise-”

 

“I am asking thee for more trust than I deserve,” Gwynsen acknowledges, and his voice wavers now, too, a rare thing for the firstborn prince. “But in all these years, I have found that the truest wishes of my heart are the promises easiest to fulfill, for I never lose sight of them in my mind's eye.”

 

His knight only stands there, trying to absorb all that which is thrown upon him. Though they stand sheltered from the wind and rain, the tumult in his heart threatens to drown out what logic remains. “If thou art going away,” he utters, “then tell me what I must do.”

 

Gwynsen's expression hardens again, and he turns to peer out over Lordran. “Thou wilt keep my father's counsels,” he says. “Find out more from our guests of their intentions. Continue training thy dragonslayers, we may need them yet. When I return, I hope to have an answer as to what purpose.”

 

Ornstein nods, stiffly, not liking a single word that passes from Gwynsen's lips, but he tries with his whole heart to understand. _Do I train my dragonslayers, then, for something other than dragonslaying?_ But he shall trust his prince, as in all things, even if it rends him apart.

 

“Tell me thou wouldst have me for a husband,” Gwynsen says, suddenly. “If indeed it is true. Thou art right to be angry at me, but let me hold this knowledge in my heart as I go.”

 

Ornstein cannot begin to imagine a reality in which he is wedded to Gwynsen. He does not know the shape of it, cannot pretend to imagine what it looks like. But Gwynsen awaits a simple answer, as if it is, somehow, a simple question.

 

He gives his answer, and then Gwynsen is gone, and Ornstein is left only with the memories of that promise echoing in his mind.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow everything happens so much
> 
> A few notes here: I want to say here that this isn't a love triangle kind of story, and I don't want the narrative to feel framed against any of the women. I've chosen to write a bit of a heteronormative/gender-essentialist Lordran, which is mostly based on how I personally interpret the framework of the canon, but I definitely want to do more with, say, Gwynevere in the future :)
> 
> (And yes the firstborn comes back! It's not time for The Big Leave) 
> 
> As always, thanks for your comments/etc! <3


	6. Divided

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prince and his knight spend some time apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, this chapter was another monstrously long one, but I made a late game decision (per a suggestion to keep the chapters more digestible) to split it up, which I'm glad for so I can spend some more time on the next one :)
> 
> Not to sound like a broken record but thank you very much for your comments, it makes me really happy that anyone's reading my shockingly long fanfiction!!

 

* * *

 

If there is one thing a knight captain must be able to do in times of duress, it is his job.

 

Ornstein allows himself a moment to collect his thoughts and emotions, and waits for the tears to ebb. He feels an almost overwhelming sense of loss and longing, standing here alone outside the castle while the wind beats at his face, but there isn't time to sort through it. Finally, he removes one gauntlet to wipe at his face carefully – impossibly, forgetting the ring until it rubs gently into his skin - knowing there is much he cannot do about his red eyes, surely swollen from his sorrow. All the while, however, he formulates his next action.

 

Gwynsen's instructions to him had by no means been exhaustive, but Ornstein knows the prince trusts his first knight with how to proceed. He replaces the lion helm over his head, and feels the calming pull of duty, of plans and ideas beginning to coalesce.

 

The first thing he must do is go directly to Lord Gwyn. Nothing but the truth – or a near, but prettier version of it - will suffice to explain Gwynsen's absence, or his behavior. Ornstein will deliver it as objectively and confidently as he is able, relying on the good rapport he has with the old Lord to try and make the situation sound like it is to his benefit. It is what Gwynsen trusts him to do.

 

On his way back through the barracks, he passes the grisly scene again. The dead soldier is being removed by his comrades, who are still murmuring in confusion amongst themselves. Ornstein chances a look down at the man. He knows his face by sight, but nothing stands out about him.

 

Quelaag is no longer here, but Artorias stands against the wall, and his gaze follows Ornstein as he enters the room. “Captain...” he begins, questioning.

 

“Soon I shall explain all,” Ornstein promises. “I go to Lord Gwyn.”

 

Artorias only nods, and his head trails back to follow the knights as they organize themselves.

 

Ornstein has planned for what to say to the old Lord when he sees him, but as he suspects, preliminary word has already traveled to him, and he does not need to announce the reason for his visit. Lord Gwyn sees him by the door and immediately dismisses the councilors in his presence. “Give me the long version of it, Ornstein,” he demands when they are alone, sitting back in his great throne as if he is bracing himself. “Do not spare any detail.”

 

Ornstein spares no detail – no _relevant_ detail – as he goes over Gwynsen's connection with the dragon, how he had struggled with the visions and memories implanted into him, the new space created in his mind that he had struggled to reckon with. Gwyn nods impatiently at some parts, and listens intently at others.

 

“There is much he believes we can learn from them,” the knight concludes when he is finished with the summation of events, “and he has bade us to continue training the dragonslayers in his absence.” He weighs the wisdom of what he is about to say next. “I hope, my Lord,” he begins, attempting to strike the right balance between contriteness and earnestness as a servant on his master's behalf, “that thou wilt not bring thy judgment down too harshly upon him. As his knight, I cannot pretend to know the entirety of his mind, but I know all that he has done has been for our benefit.”

 

Lord Gwyn's face had been drawn and stormy, but when Ornstein is finished talking, there is a trace of detached amusement in his eyes, hooded and cryptic though they are. “Thou art faithful indeed, Ornstein,” Lord Gwyn comments. His intense stare could make a man buckle, but Ornstein keeps his head high. “I have often wondered at the wisdom of having thee serve two masters.”

 

Ornstein has no answer for this ambiguous statement, but continues staring straight ahead, looking unperturbed. Lord Gwyn shakes his head, and gives a deep, weary sigh, which seems to fill every echoing corner of this wide and empty hall. The moments drag long between them.

 

“My firstborn son was fated to give me trouble from the beginning,” the old Lord laments at last. Ornstein listens, rapt. “Hubris was said to be the downfall of humans, not Gods! And for this reason I wished for a son who would be strong enough to one day win my wars, a son with convictions worthy of a God, yet who was not so clever that I could not outpace him even when his strength would grow to rival my own.”

 

At this, the knight's eyes widen imperceptibly behind his helm. But Lord Gwyn does not change course. “And now all of Lordran may see that my firstborn has become all that I had wished for,” Lord Gwyn grumbles, “yet the one thing he cares nothing for is the legacy of my family.”

 

Ornstein swallows thickly, but he is determined not to hesitate, nor to be too coy, for appearing to shy away from the topic may be incriminating in its own right. “My Lord,” he begins, sounding tentative. “It appeared to me at dinner the other night that the daughters of Izalith were proposing a marriage contract...”

 

“Thou hast the right of it, in part, Ornstein,” Lord Gwyn calls, “for he is determined not to marry without giving me great grief! But I concern myself not only with the continuation of my blood, for there is so much more that I have built... and I do not know whether my son shall commit to being a guardian of it.”

 

At this, the old Lord leans back in his seat, and his eyes travel now to the expansive ceilings of his throne room. Ornstein wonders if the _thing_ in question is the very city of Anor Londo, of the way of life guarded by the Gods. The thought seems ridiculous to him; yet, it is not so absurd, the more he thinks on it. _Gwynsen does not treasure things for the mere sake of tradition,_ he knows. There is no better evidence to that than the ring on his own finger.

 

He quickly drags his mind away from that dangerous place.

 

“My Lord,” he starts. ”I think we both see that there is much opportunity waiting here, if we are ready to seize upon it.”

 

“Indeed,” Lord Gwyn affirms. “It pleases me, after all, Ornstein, that thou dost not waste my time by feigning ignorance. My son may gather what he likes from the dragons, assuming that he does not find his own death. In the meantime we shall prepare what intelligence we can.”

 

Ornstein nods once, and does not dwell on the old Lord's words, because he refuses to accept that Gwynsen has left them all only to die alone in the wilds.

 

* * *

 

True to his word, Ornstein locates Artorias after, and gives him an abbreviated version of events. The other knight listens carefully, and does not ask too many questions.

 

Except one. “Didst thou know this would be his plan?”

 

_Was I aware that Gwynsen would kill a sworn knight and leave the castle, tasking me with the aftermath of it all?_ “No,” he says simply, and they part.

 

* * *

 

The weeks that follow are tedious; on the surface all too ordinary, but when Ornstein retires to his rooms he is exhausted from the effort of the role he must play with Lord Gwyn, and with their guests, too. The daughters of Izalith are clearly shaken from what has happened, but still they consort with Gwynevere and do the things that are expected from ladies of the court. Mostly.

 

Ciaran has been complaining of them. _They are slippery_ , she says. Presumably, she is still bitter about losing track of Quelaag on the day the Witch's daughter had discovered the murder of the knight by Gwynsen. There are many questions Ornstein has about that, but he is biding his time. The last thing Lord Gwyn wants is to be a discourteous host – the old Lord is playing a different game with them.

 

Most of the time, at the end of the day, sleep comes easily for Ornstein, as it always has for him. It is a valuable trait for a soldier, after all – one cannot afford to be selective about how and when one sleeps, when at any moment one can be awakened rudely at the whims of duty. But some nights, it is difficult. For the first few days after Gwynsen's departure he resists a vulgar impulse he has to go to the prince's rooms and spend just a few moments lying in his bed, just to catch a bit of that familiar scent. Ultimately, he knows it will be impossible to justify himself if he is caught, and after those first few nights it is irrelevant, because he is not sure if the traces of the prince's presence will linger that long. This thought alone is nearly enough to make him mad. _Should_ _Gwynsen not ever return_ – but he will. Ornstein must have faith in him.

 

In the intermittent hours, when he is not playing a role, he trains with his dragonslayers. Gwyndolin's imitation drakes, it must be said, have gotten particularly lifelike after the attack on the castle, and the young Lord still commits to helping them practice even in his elder brother's absence, a fact which brings Ornstein much gratitude. Sometimes – though no one can predict when, or why – the shimmering form of Lord Gwyn himself arrives to watch them train, and rather than make them nervous this seems to bolster the knights as they aim to impress their Lord.

 

They are more than just a collection of hand-picked soldiers, now. They are truly a unit, for they move as one animal. The archers are ever-alert, constantly on the lookout for threats to the spearmen below. As for the close-combat knights, they know how to bait the dragons together, and none of them tries to seize glory for glory's sake. Victory is shared evenly by all, no matter who scores the killing blow. Ornstein feels least lonely when he is in their presence. He has even started training with them himself, to become part of the unit. Their skills have risen to the point where he can participate in the (increasingly difficult) drills without skewing the results.

 

After one such drill, Ornstein dismisses them all, and he is so pleased at the sweat he has worked up that he does not hide it, taking off his helm so he may better feel the cool wind of the evening air against his face. It encourages the knights to see their captain having to exert himself to keep up with the drills they are doing together. He senses that perhaps they shall ask him to dine with them – as they sometimes do, increasingly more these days – when he becomes aware that Gwyndolin is looking at him, imploringly.

 

“My Lord?” Ornstein inquires.

 

“Sir Ornstein, perhaps thou might walk with me back to the castle,” the little Lord says, less of a suggestion than a command. Ornstein fights back the little smile that threatens his face when he thinks of how, perhaps more than any of them, Gwyndolin takes after his father that way. “Of course, my Lord,” he acquiesces, and raises his hand in a small gesture of goodbye to his knights as he begins the walk back at Gwyndolin's side.

 

It is unlike the little Lord to want such a thing from him, and the fact of this sends Ornstein's thoughts wandering as they wind their way through the halls. Whatever Gwyndolin wishes to discuss with him, it must be something best spoken of in private, for they make only the most courteous small talk on their way to Gwyndolin's rooms.

 

Few have been the occasions to visit the rooms in question. The last time Ornstein has seen them, it was during the attack on the castle, when they had searched for the young prince in vain. He sees them in a different light now – the chill of the evening as it drifts in through the window gives the room almost a violet glow. Lord Gwyndolin's bed, imposing and large on the far end of the room, is draped in silvery silk, and the curtains on the canopy are as thin as Seath's crystalline wings.

 

Gwyndolin takes a seat at a small bedside vanity, and Ornstein stands by the door until the Lord bids him to sit. He does not. “Sir Ornstein,” Gwyndolin begins at last. “Where hath my brother Gwynsen gone?”

 

The lion knight is unprepared for the question. Perhaps he had assumed that Lord Gwyn had shared information freely with his other children, though he realizes now in hindsight his mistake. Of course Lord Gwyn would not give out such details to anyone unless he believed it would that the fact of their knowing would benefit him.

 

Ornstein hesitates, not knowing what he can say without in some way defying Lord Gwyn's wishes – but, he has not been expressly told not to, and he does not wish to insult Gwyndolin, either – particularly after the little Lord has been so obliging in helping the dragonslayers with their training.

 

“He has gone on urgent business to help us with our plight against the dragons, my Lord,” Ornstein replies, dutifully. Gwyndolin makes a displeased noise.

 

“That is what I hear,” he agrees, sounding dismissive. “Yet I do not know where _exactly_ he has gone. Dost thou really not know?”

 

The words cut a little at Ornstein's hide, but at least he does not have to lie. “Truly, I do not,” he replies.

 

Gwyndolin sighs, turning to face the mirror in front of him. “Then I am sorry to have wasted both of our time,” he says, curtly, and waves him away. “Thou may go.”

 

Ornstein does not know what moves him to say, “I am sure he shall return soon,” instead of leaving after he has been so clearly dismissed. The fact is that he has no idea whether Gwynsen will arrive tomorrow, next week, next year, or not at all, and he dislikes to be dishonest. Perhaps it is the effect of seeing the Dark Sun looking so distraught.

 

But Gwyndolin, his head lowered, only turns the slightest bit to look at him. “I worry that he shall do something very brash and unwise,” he says, his tone unmistakably ominous.

 

The Lord's outright hostility surprises Ornstein. “...May I ask what thou meanst, my Lord?” he asks, hesitant once more.

 

Evidently he has unblocked the stream, and the water flows freely. “He does not even pretend to respect our father,” Gwyndolin complains. “Nor does he show proper deference to our guests, though he shall inherit the dominion of this kingdom one day. And in that state of mind, he has run off to seek council with our mortal enemy.” He turns to look at his elder brother's knight. “I am surprised thou needest my clarification on these points, since thou art his first knight and hast been present for all of this.”

 

It is far much more resentment than Ornstein could have suspected to be bubbling inside the young Lord. He remembers, all at once, Gwynsen's words: _I love them both deep in my heart, and I know they do love me too, but if it came to a choice between me and father..._ Ornstein frowns, though it is hidden behind the helm that he has chosen to put back over his features some time before. _Perhaps Lord Gwyn has set this into motion,_ he thinks, and proves Gwynsen's point all over again. _I really have chosen between them, in spite of those oaths. Can I really be said to serve two masters?_

 

Gwyndolin sighs, now. The Lord's gaze roams to the window. “Forgive me, Sir Ornstein,” he utters, softly. “I hope thou knowest I do not mean to be so cross with thee. Thou art surely wronged here, too.”

 

Ornstein dismisses the prince's concerns with a small wave of his hand. _Does he mean that I am wronged because I am left here to deal with all of this alone?_ he wonders. “There is no need for apologies, my Lord. I merely hope that all will see itself righted in the end,” he says, neutrally.

 

“Thou art gracious as always,” Gwyndolin observes, and dismisses him again, in a much more cordial fashion.

 

* * *

 

 

On one particular afternoon, Ornstein receives a summons to an unplanned council meeting.

 

He is there promptly, taking the empty seat that he sees beside Lord Gwyn, returning a nod of acknowledgment from the old Lord while his mind races with questions.

 

The squad leader of the scout dispatch is here. The riders had been dispatched several weeks prior, and have spent their time dividing their numbers throughout the lands beyond Lordran, sharing reports via raven or messenger. Ordinarily, word reaches the castle of dragonkin when they have become pests or threats to the surrounding human settlements, but for the scouts, their aim has been the sniffing out of unknown nests – any location where the beasts might yet thrive in secret.

 

“All evidence we gathered of this domain suggests an underground lair,” the squad leader is explaining, as he pores over some map with the assembled council. Lord Gwyn remains seated, staring into the parchment with an intensely focused but unreadable expression. Ornstein scrutinizes the marks on the page, trying to visualize the terrain.

 

“You have not seen for yourselves, then?” he asks, when the man is finished.

 

“We were not outfitted for such a task, Sir,” the soldier explains. “We are sure there is activity, but they seem to dwell deep within the rock. It would be difficult to engage them there.”

 

Lord Gwyn _hrms_ , unhappily. Ornstein only nods.

 

“We may flush them out,” he decides, looking to the faces of the other men gathered. “The dragonkin may be immune to fire, but in part, they are vulnerable to the same tactics as used on a den of foxes or hares. We will send another squad to assess the number of entrances and exits, and send giants to block all but one. Around that one which we deem most tactically advantageous, we shall set up an ambush point and wait for them to make their stand.”

 

Lord Gwyn nods, silently, and the soldier bows. First Lieutenant Lowan, nearby, rises. “I shall see to it at once, my Lord. Sir Ornstein.”

 

Ornstein looks to Lord Gwyn again, then to the others assembled. “But that initial survey should be thorough,” he puts in, interrupting the air of finality which had crept into the room. “It may offer us a chance to study their behavior, and perhaps, even, guess at where else they might appear. Do not kill them without my command.” He is bold, hoping it shall carry him.

 

The lieutenant's gaze travels from Ornstein to Lord Gwyn. The old Lord waves him away. “Thou hast thine orders, sir!” Gwyn rumbles.

 

With that, Lowan bows again. “Yes, my Lord.”

 

Silently, Ornstein breathes a sigh of relief. He cannot appear too eager to spare the dragonkin, but at the same time, he must come up with a plausible reason not to slaughter them until Gwynsen can return. _Of course, it is all for naught unless he is back soon._

 

When the other councilors have gone, Gwyn leans back in his lordly seat. When he is not presiding over some ceremony or another, Ornstein muses, Gwyn often looks like he does now: tired, vaguely disgruntled. Perhaps it is become his permanent state of mind.

 

He does not seem angry with him. Ornstein had wondered if he would get away with commanding for the survey, but perhaps Gwyn now recognizes the wisdom of studying their enemy – so long as he is not the one having to dispense the order.

 

“My Lord,” he begins, thinking of the other topic on his mind. “It has been weeks now. Might I ask if we are any closer to discovering why our guest, Quelaag of Izalith, was in the presence of that traitor when he was executed?”

 

Now, however, the old Lord gives him a distasteful look. “He was not _executed_ ,” he returns. “For a man to be executed in this castle, it must be at _my_ word.”

 

Ornstein nods in acknowledgment, cringing at his own choice of words. Of course it would be so. _No doubt that brutish Smough was upset about it, too. He does so enjoy his work._ Just another enemy Gwynsen has made in the castle, most likely.

 

“Pardon,” he corrects. “When he was... killed, by the firstborn prince.”

 

Gwyn frowns at him. “And wherefore does it behoove thee to know, Ornstein?”

 

Ornstein cannot help it; he is a little hurt at Gwyn's shrugging away his confidence. The old Lord sighs, then. “Thou mayest be assured that they do not conspire against us,” he says at last. “I know thou pursuest friendship with them.”

 

To some extent, that is true. “Go now,” the old Lord says. “I shall summon thee again when more word arrives.”

 

* * *

 

Admittedly, it had started out as a bid for information.

 

Ornstein is not proud of it, but he'd continued to accept the company of Quelaan, on those rare afternoons where his schedule is curiously open, and she is in need of the kind of gallantry that her sisters (adopted or otherwise) cannot provide. _It is not quite manipulative_ , he'd decided, on his part, for he is only doing what is expected of him as a host (if he can be truly considered a host, as a subject of the Gods).

 

After a few walks together, though, he finds he looks forward to their talks. Quelaan is an easy speaker; she may seem shy or demure, at first, but it is easy to see why she has inspired the devotion of the servants, for more than once Ornstein observes them voluntarily making extra rounds into her room, ensuring she is comfortable. She is attentive and kind, and always remembers what one tells her. On top of that, she is loyal, and will not suffer a single unkind word about Quelaag, or Gwynevere. _It is almost too bad she and the prince did not get on_ , Ornstein thinks, despite himself, _for she would have made an excellent queen._

 

“Oh!” Quelaan suddenly exclaims, as they walk presently outside the castle. They have just passed under a certain gate, and Ornstein wonders whether that is what is giving her pause. “Look at how the afternoon advances! I have just remembered thou must train with thy dragonslayers!”

 

Ornstein follows her gaze. She is observing the movements of the sun, and the shadows cast upon the ground. He wonders if this is a skill often honed in Izalith. “We can begin to head back, if the hour grows late,” he agrees, “but do not fret. We do not train today.”

 

In the end, they decide to finish the circuit. They talk of many things; Quelaan surprises him by remarking that the prince must be kind at heart indeed, for he clearly has inspired much devotion in his first knight. She talks then about how the division of castes is not so pronounced in Izalith, and how her mother believes in the fair and dignified treatment of servants, and Ornstein knows she has not quite caught on. _In spite of Gwynsen's poor attempts at caution, it is good that everyone thinks we are merely lord and vassal._

 

He does not, no matter how it tugs at his mind, give any more thought to the fraught concept that Gwynsen had imposed upon him. _Marriage_. _To his knight._ He had spoken the words so seriously, but Ornstein cannot get past the lunacy of them. It is impossible, and so to consider it in any way is to court his own sorrow.

 

Presently he must be lost in his own head, for Quelaan turns to him. “When we head back, I believe I shall retire straight away,” she says. “I thank thee again for walking with me.” She is too polite to point out Ornstein's fractured thoughts. If he were kinder, he would redouble his efforts and assure her that she had his full attention; but as things stand, he is grateful.

 

His thoughts are of rest, or of solitude, but it is not his own room he finds himself standing in front of, when he returns to the castle. _It has been weeks_ , he thinks, but he does not have the energy to be angry at himself.

 

He pushes open the door to Gwynsen's rooms, thankfully unlocked. There is nobody within, nor was there anyone without to observe him entering. Still the glow of evening remains to drift in through the windows, and like this he can see every corner of the expansive room.

 

What had he expected to find? He is not sure. It is all, more or less, just as he'd remembered: the tremendous bed with its golden sheets, the immaculate floors, the wooden furniture unmarred by any signs of day-to-day existence. _How would Gwynsen's rooms appear were it not for the servants?_ he finds himself wondering. _How would he live?_ Ornstein is tidy by nature, and has his own quarters now, but back in the knight barracks it was easy to assess a person by how they treated their small amount of personal space (although as servants of Lord Gwyn, good habits were often drilled into them). As it is, this room is sterile, unremarkable. There is no sign of Gwynsen anywhere in it, except for the memories that come to Ornstein's mind as he pictures their time together here. He finds himself wishing for something more.

 

He sits down on the bed, removing a gauntlet so he can feel the familiar softness of the sheets under his fingertips. He lifts his gaze, and his eyes meet those frozen ones of the woman on the wall.

 

The painting sits mounted high beside Gwynsen's bed. The gaze of the lady depicted within is neutral, unsmiling, but somehow, Ornstein has always felt that her presence is kind. He had never met the former queen of Lordran, not personally; although on a few early occasions as a silver knight, he had caught a glimpse of her on the balcony beside her Lord husband. Ornstein was young then, scarcely a grown man himself, and the royal family had seemed so ephemeral to him, almost impossible to hold in his gaze for their beauty. But then she had died in the birth of Gwyndolin.

 

He is not superstitious, but he had wondered at first, when he had first gone to bed with the prince, if her eyes would appear to watch them, burning holes into the back of the knight who had thought himself worthy of her royal son. However, it is the exact reverse: impossibly, the presence of the painting makes him feel safe.

 

_What would she think of her son going out into the world without even his first knight to watch over him?_ he wonders, looking up at her. _Would she approve of his choices? Would she have advocated for him? Supported him?_ Gwynsen does not often talk about his late mother, and he senses the topic is still painful for him. He has always gotten the impression, though, that they had been close. It had even seemed that perhaps she had been the bridge between the prince and his father.

 

Time elapses, and it appears more that he is conferring with the ghost of someone dead, rather than feeling any lingering traces of the one he had come in search for. He rises from the bed, casts a look around the room, and prays that happier memories will visit it again.

 

* * *

 

As the days pass by, Ornstein keeps himself in a state of preparation for many things.

 

At any time, he knows, there could come word from the field of the dragons. Lord Gwyn may decide to take action, actions that Ornstein is powerless to circumvent because Gwynsen has been too long in returning. And of course, at any time, Gwynsen himself might walk these halls again. Ornstein often catches himself spending too long at a window, imagining he sees some distant shape moving far off, and watching, waiting to see it again, approaching the castle.

 

But then there are also events he could not have predicted, and this is one of them.

 

Sprinting, he reaches the end of the hallway, towards where he hears the sounds of conflict. There are alarming flickers he can see from within the room, like fire.

 

When he arrives at the doorway, it is to the sight of Quelaag, adorned in her robes rather than her court finery, throwing pillars of fire at a Lord's Blade.

 

This must end, and now. “Stop this at once!” he cries, and to his surprise, both women cease their scrapping and look to him.

 

“Captain,” comes Ciaran's voice, and he sees her now along the far wall. “How good it is of thee to join us.”

 

He surveys the scene again. Several other Blades lurk nearby, their body language collected. It is a relief that it is not a serious conflict – though Lord Gwyn's keep is built of heavy stone and resists even dragon's fire, fire is still not a welcome fixture here – but he finds himself embarrassed to have interrupted some sparring, and this in turn annoys him. “Pardon me for the interruption, then, my Lady,” he says, to Quelaag only, “But I had hoped Ciaran would notify thee that there are designated sparring grounds outside the castle.”

 

“Oh, tis not sparring,” Quelaag says, easily, “but I did warn my dear friend that there would be repercussions if I caught her _spies_ tailing me again.”

 

Ornstein looks to Ciaran, who shrugs. “She is very perceptive, captain,” Ciaran explains, almost apologetically.

 

In the end, Ciaran dismisses her Blades, who disappear seemingly into the shadows, and the two of them with Quelaag in tow begin a walk through the castle.

 

“It is not often that we have occasion to see users of fire up close,” Ciaran says, some time later, when they take a step into the courtyard. It is the same place where Ornstein's dragonslayers had faced off against a great wyvern, he knows; he finds himself wondering, grimly, where those who were slain had fallen. “Nor do my Blades often have trouble observing ordinary members of the court. They are learning of their limitations, I imagine.”

 

“But not of mine,” Quelaag returns with a smirk. Still, there is no hostility in her voice as she follows them through the gardens.

 

The castle greenery had been the queen's passion, and not Lord Gwyn's, but perhaps out of respect for her he has kept up the maintenance of the gardens, and even ordered them re-cultivated and repaired when the dragonkin had laid waste to it. Some is still intact, but much has been re-grown anew over the last few months. Ornstein thinks it is all the more beautiful for it.

 

They pass one particular statue, standing in the midst of a stand of flowers, and it gives Quelaag pause. Ornstein knows which one it is, and his heart is glad that it has been left undamaged.

 

Standing before them is the late queen of Lordran, her garments flowing out behind her as if from an unseen breeze, a babe in her arms as if they walk together through the gardens. “That is the prince?” Quelaag asks.

 

The two knights only nod.

 

The witch's daughter looks up at it a moment more, then continues their stroll. “I do not obscure info from you out of mistrust,” she says, suddenly, directed to both of them. “It was the wish of my mother to make a deal directly with Lord Gwyn and no one else, but months now have elapsed with the prince gone, and the matter we have come to discuss with his father does not grow any the less urgent.”

 

Ciaran and Ornstein exchange a look. “My Lady, I do not wish to interrupt,” he begins, “but since you have arrived – wishing to see the dragon, and the fact of thee coming across the traitor by happenstance-” he pauses abruptly, aware he has veered dangerously into the accusatory, but she does not seem offended.

 

“They were some kind of dragon cult,” Quelaag murmurs. “People seeking to become dragons. Mother wished to learn more from them. We knew there was one such person in your castle with contacts with them, hence why I sought him out, but never did we think he would be connected to the attack you suffered.”

 

_People seeking to_ become _dragons?_ Ornstein wonders if he has heard correctly. There had been certainly nothing dragon-like about the thralls he had seen that night, as he races through his memories. “As to the urgent matter mother concerns herself with,” Quelaag continues, her voice dark. “Suffice it to say it does not threaten merely Izalith... nor even Lordran.”

 

“This sounds grave indeed,” Ciaran comments. Her voice sounds angry somehow. “And thou sayest that thy mother wishes to gain some advantage of it, by manipulating Lord Gwyn?”

 

“It is her nature,” the witch's daughter replies, and Ornstein wonders again about the relationship between the Witch of Izalith and her children. “She cannot offer to risk herself to save the world without ensuring the continuation of her legacy.”

 

_Well then, she and Lord Gwyn do not differ very much after all._ Ornstein is still alarmed at her choice of words. “If it is a matter of seriousness for so many,” he begins, “then there is a duty we all carry to help prevent it. If thou cannot tell Lord Gwyn, at least tell us.”

 

“I cannot,” she says only, “for things are already set in motion.”

 

* * *

 

The sun now speaks to the advancing hour of the afternoon, but Ornstein and Ciaran have not left the courtyard.

 

After Quelaag had excused herself, the two knights of Gwyn had found themselves stuck in the gardens with no desire to head back into the castle. They visit the statue again, and it inspires the exchanging of tales of their early knighthood, and idly wondering about Gwynsen's return, although the topic does not advance beyond that.

 

It is, beyond doubt, a foolish thing to trust a spymaster. Not when he carries so many dear secrets that must never reach Lord Gwyn's ears. And yet, Ornstein realizes, somehow in the space of time leading up to this moment, he has developed what feels like a true friendship with Ciaran.

 

She does not speak of what has her so impassioned, though he can feel the anger on her. At length, they sit together on a wide bench, overlooking the flowers of the garden. The situation would be enhanced with some alcohol, probably, but still he cannot imagine going back within, not when the wind outside, even as it filters into the sequestered courtyard, carries the scent of so many faraway places.

 

“Already she has spoken with Lord Gwyn,” Ciaran says at last, her voice neutral, and all the more spiteful because of it. “A royal spymaster, I am, indeed! Not even to be trusted with a secret that perhaps threatens all of us.”

 

“I am not sure if Lord Gwyn trusts anyone, wholly,” Ornstein says, gently. “He does not trust his children, nor his knights...”

 

“No one except the dragon and the serpent, to be sure,” Ciaran retorts, bitterly, her voice laced with mocking laughter. The dragon, of course, is the detestable Seath, and the serpent is the horrifying creature that calls itself Frampt. It speaks with an educated and refined tongue, but its visage is terrible, and Ornstein does not think it wise to trust anything that slithers and speaks of _end times_ and _sacrifices_. That is the impression he has always gotten from the creature, though Lord Gwyn jealously guards its company these days.

 

The breeze floating about in the garden blows rough for a moment, leaving the long grasses in the flowerbeds to tussle in the wind. Ornstein tries to release the tension he feels: the tension of relentless training, of acting, of dancing within a delicate boundary that exists when he keeps company with Lord Gwyn and his council. Today he is wound up from the effort of all three.

 

“And how dost thou fare alone?” Ciaran asks, after a time.

 

It is a personal question, surely. It is not often that they speak of such matters, not like this. He sighs, preparing to respond.

 

“It is bearable,” he replies, finally, “at least while my faith lingers.”

 

“Faith that he shall return?” Ciaran asks, quietly. “I have tried to retain such faith as well.”

 

Ornstein peers at her, curiously. “I know not if thou feelst it,” she continues, “but something within me says that son and father may yet go against each other... and that it would be wise for us to contemplate where we stand, when it occurs.” Now his attention is riled in full.

 

What Ciaran speaks of so openly is almost tantamount to treason. “We do not know if it shall come to that,” he replies, with as much finality as he can, for he does not wish to entertain such thoughts.

 

Something possesses him to return her personal inquiry with another, after they have sat a while. “And hast thou had any luck with Artorias, then?” he asks, though the way her body language tenses at this suggests there have been no new developments.

 

“I know thou art no spymaster, but draw thine own conclusions, captain.”

 

“You are so often together,” he murmurs, still, finding it so wicked that the two knights can be on equal footing utterly and yet, find the distance between them so untraversable.

 

Ciaran tries to sound untroubled, but her captain knows her too well.“It is a lost cause,” she says, dismissively. “He is determined to do nothing to surprise us. Not like thy prince.”

 

“Indeed,” Ornstein mutters, for this at least he can attest to. “Artorias sees what is pragmatic, but after all, he is a knight. The prince has been raised as a prince, and wishes for many impossible things.”

 

“Oh?” Ciaran's interest is had, now. Ornstein flushes. He should not have been spoken so carelessly – Ciaran's web is one he cannot escape from.

 

“He speaks lunacy,” he divulges, shaking his head. “For he says that he wishes us married.”

 

Ciaran's interest now is intense, focused. Then she laughs. “Thy prince is most bold, and most foolish,” she muses, shaking her head.

 

“Indeed,” Ornstein admits, quietly, blushing brightly and wishing he had not gone so far.

 

Another brief silence passes between them. “But, he is prone to surprises,” Ciaran muses, contemplative. “Perhaps he shall surprise me by pulling it off.”

 

It is the reverse of her situation, indeed. Constant, steady Artorias. His is a simple heart. _Because I invoked the name of love, he is sympathetic to me, despite the fact that I fly in the face of a knight's honor by romancing a prince of the royal family. But he cannot ever do the same himself._ Perhaps it is cruel to talk of love to poor Ciaran.

 

“Hast thou considered,” he begins, not sure why he continues this topic, “perhaps pursuing another? I do not think Lord Gwyn would be opposed to his knights taking a lover from town, or even from one of the nobles...”

 

Ciaran fixes him with a disdainful look, and Ornstein raises his hand in surrender. “And wouldst thou consider the same, captain, if thou couldst not have thy sunlit prince?” she drawls, parrying the question skillfully.

 

In fact, he had. Though of course, that was taking into account the fact that he had not even considered Gwynsen as a potential romantic option, not until the prince had more or less spelled out his own desires for him, after a clumsy attempt at courtship. Until then, his knight had not trifled with matters of the heart. Of a few of his occasional lovers, he had been fond, but never had any of them tempted him away from his duty.

 

What Ciaran asks is different. Ornstein knows that now, there is no room in his heart to consider another, not even for the purposes of argument. “No,” he agrees.

 

“Thou wilt have to look out for him,” Ciaran says, suddenly, surprising Ornstein. “I fear he will need allies soon, though I hope I am wrong.”

 

He nods, then, for though he hopes it is idle worry, there is no doubt that he shall guard him, always.

 

* * *

 

It is not quite night when he makes it back to his room. There are vague impressions in his memories of parting with Ciaran, of having gone to dine with the soldiers, of a few other things besides, but oddly they are hazy and distant.

 

Like clockwork, he removes his armor, though the sun has only just set. Standing there in his undershirt and breeches, he feels suddenly like a beetle pried from its shell. He had meant to join his fellows for a game of cards in the hall tonight, he realizes, startling himself with the total loss of the memory until now. A servant shall have to be dispatched with his apologies.

 

Instead, he feels the soft give of the mattress beneath him as he eases himself into bed, not even really cognizant of his actions, until he lies there staring at the ceiling. He wonders why he does not simply go to the knights' mess and join them. His armor is definitely not required for that; likely Artorias, at least, will have forgone his, as well.

 

This thought, though, like all the others, is forgotten and cast away, unimportant in the dark as the events of the day fade away into nothingness in his mind. Hours might pass as he lies there still, or days – time is difficult to grasp.

 

In truth, he has just barely begun to doze before a scraping sound outside his window brings him fully awake.

 

Ornstein springs to his feet, and arms himself with his spear before running to the window, leaning out into the darkness. It takes a moment for his vision, in the dim light, to make sense of what he is seeing.

 

A large figure clambers up onto the window sill, smelling like blood and dirt and all manner of other wild things. Ornstein's spear hits the ground. A sound like a sob chokes out from his throat, involuntary.

 

The figure straightens before the window, moonlight setting his silver hair aglow, (despite the grime), and they fall into each other, and Ornstein cannot move as he is swept into the overwhelmingly earthy scent, and he clings back with all his might, as if forces conspire to separate them. A loud rattle sounds as something (the swordspear) falls to the ground from where it is hastily leaned against the wall and Ornstein jumps – but feels a large hand press reassurances into his back.

 

He tries several times to say something, but the words do not come out. They simply exist there together. This requires no concentration, no cleverness, no effort. Only this shared breath that passes between them is enough.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know we see bedrooms in Gwyn's keep in DS1, but I more or less headcanon those as for nobles or maybe for his knights (like Orn, Ciaran etc) – I picture the bedrooms for him and his kids to be a lot more similar to the room in the cathedral where you find Gwynevere :)
> 
> Chapter 7 probably soon! I think it is a fun one


	7. Togetherness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a fated reunion springs many an unexpected thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi!! here's another update since I had most of it already written. Thank you so much for your kind words and I hope you enjoy!

 

* * *

 

Time seems inconstant, still, tonight, but when Ornstein's thoughts begins to resurface, the movements of the silver knights (as he stands, to look out the open window) suggest to him that it is still several hours to midnight. He returns to Gwynsen, hesitates, then lights a candle by the desk nearby so that he may finally see him.

 

He has mentally prepared himself for the sight of him to be rough around the edges, but still it shakes him to behold his appearance: bloodied, wretched, looking as though several layers of grime have come off in the rain and then been caked back on. There is a mark on his leg that could be an injury or simply a sign of the outside. He frets silently. Then out loud.

 

“We must get thee clean,” he urges, stating the obvious. Gwynsen lets out a laugh, then – his beautiful, easy laugh - and the sound of it is so welcome it brings a second flood of emotions welling up in Ornstein's throat.

 

“I had wondered to myself, when the journey grew long, what thou wouldst first say to me when we saw each other again,” the prince explains.

 

Ornstein's face falls a little bit. “Oh-”

 

“And it is exactly what I imagined. I missed thee so dearly, my Ornstein. Please-”

 

Gwynsen moves to embrace him again, and in spite of the prince's sorry state Ornstein is helpless in his heart to do anything but take him back into his arms. And besides, he realizes after several seconds have elapsed, he has already been fairly dirtied himself, and has not noticed until now.

 

“Gwynsen,” he begins, but he cannot find anything else to say after that. There are a number of pressing matters. _Where hast thou been? What has happened? Art thou injured? Art thou too exhausted to explain it all now?_ ...But he hardly needs to give voice to them. It all shall come out, and soon. Instead, in the midst of his silence, he merely reaches out and touches the prince's face. Gwynsen laughs again, and the sound is still so addictive that this time it actually sends a tremble down his his spine.

 

_How long has it been?_ Ornstein wonders to himself, for he has been almost too wary (and too occupied) to count the weeks – _months?_ – as they go by. And yet they stand here in this room like nothing has happened. His worst fears have gone unrealized. It is like a tension leaves him, bit by bit, as he finds the warmth in Gwynsen's skin with his fingers. Incomprehensible, it seems now, _impossible_ that they should ever have to separate again. Ornstein will not allow it, not ever.

 

A knock sounds at the door, surprising them both. Ornstein frowns, looking to the door, to the prince, and back again. He had not prepared for the outside world to intrude upon their reunion so soon. “Answer,” Gwynsen urges.

 

“But-”

 

“My father will soon know of my coming, in any case. And if it is a servant, we will have need of them.”

 

Ornstein goes to the door and creaks it open, only enough that he may peer through without being rude. It is Quelaan standing there. She does not seem to notice the prince behind him; it is hopefully still too dark in the room to discern much. “Sir Ornstein,” she greets. Ornstein sees the moment where her eyes flick down to his dirtied clothes, but she does not comment on it. “I hope thou wert not asleep, but I have just remembered that I had intended to return this book to thee.”

 

Vaguely, the knight remembers the conversation they had exchanged about it. Ornstein does not often have time to sit with a book, but Artorias and Gough give him the occasional recommendation. He accepts the item with as much grace as he can muster, right now. “Thou didst not disturb me, and thanks,” he manages. “We shall have to discuss thy thoughts on it soon–”

 

“Ah, thou art still here.” Both of them whirl around, as Gwynsen stands beside Ornstein now, as if his presence in the castle – ragged, tired, streaked with mud – is perfectly natural. “And I imagine then, thy sister, as well?”

 

Quelaan turns pale. “Lord Gwynsen!” she exclaims. “Thou art returned?” She takes stock of his appearance. “B-but hast thou not come straight from the outside?!”

 

“My Lady,” Ornstein attempts, steering them both into a productive line of discourse, “the Prince has only just arrived and I find him in need of the baths. Thou hast quite a rapport with the servants--”

 

“I shall find them,” Quelaan promises, bows to them, and scurries away. Gwynsen gives Ornstein an impressed look.

 

“I think I am fond of thy friend,” he decides.

 

* * *

 

Quelaan avows that she will help, but Ornstein manages to send her away, with forceful, _and hopefully scrupulously polite_ , appeals that they must preserve her modesty. At this very moment, he has very little interest in learning of the differing cultural norms of Izalith.

 

After the bath is filled, he thanks the servants and ushers them off, until he and Gwynsen stand alone in the steamed room. The water is hot to the touch; it must be known that it is the preference of the royal family.

 

He helps the prince out of his filthy, travel-stained clothes and armor. As more of his skin emerges, Ornstein's grimace deepens – until his upper chest is revealed, and he observes what looks like a fresh, angry scar crossing one pectoral.

 

“This injury,” he breathes. He reaches out instinctively to brush his hands to the surrounding skin, examining it, even as Gwynsen moves to step into the bath.

 

“It is healed now. Do not worry,” the prince assures him, vaguely, as he submerges himself up to the chest, taking a seat on the steps beneath the surface of the water.

 

Gwynsen is adept with offensive miracles, but he has no natural knack for healing, not like his sister. Even his first knight has more ability in this area, owing to what he has learned of field medicine during his time in the ranks of the silver knights. From what Ornstein can still see of the wound, it has not been treated skillfully and will leave scarring behind. _If I had only been there_ , he thinks, mournfully, not for the first time.

 

It will not do now to think these thoughts. Ornstein rolls the legs of his trousers up to the knee and sits at the pool's edge behind Gwynsen, getting to the daunting work of scrubbing him clean. He must focus on the task at hand, without getting distracted by the various new wounds his work is uncovering.

 

Gwynsen leans his head back, now, so that he is resting it on the tub's edge, between his knight's legs. From where Ornstein is perched above, he can see that the prince's eyes are closed, his face reflecting the weariness of someone who is only just taking rest after a long and arduous journey. The ends of his long strands of silver hair are floating limply in the bath, but the rest is still as dirty as his face.

 

Ornstein wishes dearly he could let him rest, but there is no time to dawdle now. “Thou wilt have to duck thy head under the water, my prince,” he tells him, tapping him gently on the shoulder with the washcloth he holds. He sees the beginnings of a very unroyal pout on his face.

 

Eventually Gwynsen is coaxed into it, bobbing underneath the water only long enough to soak the rest of his upper body, and Ornstein is able to start lathering the wet roots of his hair. It is work fit for servants, most likely; but Ornstein still personally prefers to go into the bath alone, and he does not mind performing the same routine for his prince. It is intimacy afforded where they may have it, before duty brings them apart.

 

“When shall I hear the full tale of what has happened to thee?” he chances, quietly, as he works.

 

“Tonight,” Gwynsen promises, as he sits with drained stillness, letting Ornstein work. “Come to my rooms after I have seen father, if thou art awake.”

 

“ _Of course_ I shall be,” Ornstein chides, “I will be unable to find sleep again before I know.”

 

It is no small thing, working the prince's hair until he has soothed out the tangles and the places where it catches. It is long, and thick, and naturally unruly, and the many weeks of exposure to the elements have done it no favors. Gwynsen leans against his leg while he works, going boneless in the tub. Ornstein is glad to see him relax.

 

“I am sorry, Ornstein,” the prince murmurs, during an interval of stillness.

 

“For what, my prince?”

 

As he continues his work, he feels the shape of Gwynsen's small smile against his knee. “It is kind of thee to pretend ignorance. The truth remains that I have left thee alone with the mess I have made here. So much, it was, to ask of thee. I hope... I hope it was well, with father.”

 

Ornstein cranes his neck downward, at the same time that he gently inclines Gwynsen's head up to face him. It is all so the prince can see the chastising look on his face. “I am his knight as well as thine,” he reminds him, “and I can deal with thy father with ease, _my Lord_.”

 

The prince _hmm_ s softly. “I take it you have made much progress in the reconnaissance element of the dragon hunting mission.” The prince's voice is still barely there, fatigue evident.

 

“Yes, and we have continued training our regiment. All is what thou expected, on that front.”

 

He rinses out his hair now, running his fingers through the long strands, gently as he can. Gwynsen's body retains some tension beneath him. Ornstein leans down and presses a delicate kiss against his temple. He wants to do this and so much more, but he is disciplined, and has long excelled at waiting.

 

Gwynsen lifts and tilts his head the slightest bit, getting a look at his knight behind him. “There is still time to join me,” he offers, a bit of that long-missed teasing in his voice, as if what he offers is a viable option right at this moment. “I have dirtied thee a bit, I see.”

 

“Do not take offense, my prince,” Ornstein returns, as he makes to stand, “but I would emerge fouler than when I got in.” It is a fair point. Only on the most grueling of campaigns has Ornstein seen bathwater so polluted; but then, he is used to the worst of it staying on his armor. At least the size of the pool dilutes it somewhat. “And we cannot be long to meet thy father. It is already poor enough that thou shalt have come from the knights' wing in the castle, of all places, instead of going straight to see him-”

 

Ornstein stops as he sees Gwynsen raise a hand, slightly, as if to silence him. There is a look on his face that is difficult to interpret. It gives Ornstein pause.

 

“He will not think that detail strange.” Gwynsen has been averting his eyes, but now he looks up to hold Ornstein's gaze. “He knows.”

 

The world drops out from under Ornstein's feet. For a moment, his mind denies the shape of Gwynsen's words. “That cannot be,” he croaks. His mind is racing further, turning over all of his interactions with Lord Gwyn in the previous months. _He is wrong, he must be wrong._ “Art thou mistaken...? Perhaps-”

 

“He has known since long before I left,” Gwynsen repeats, quietly, and so softly. He reaches out for Ornstein's hand. “And twas only just before I left that I learned of it. I am sorry.”

 

Ornstein is going to be sick. He is sure for a strange, floating moment that he is going to pass out, or else become ill right into the bathwater.

 

In his mind's eye, the last few months spent with Lord Gwyn have taken on an entirely new shape. Into all those meetings he had gone, bearing his head aloft as a proud knight of Gwyn. So full of surety he had been; holding the determination to guard their secrets, and the mind and will to do the prince's work while he was away, all while building up trust with the old Lord who had first clad him in gold. All that time, what had been Gwyn been thinking of him? That he was a fraud? A pervert and an ingrate? Had the old Lord been biding his time, waiting to make a fool of him if he proved no longer useful?

 

“Why didst thou not tell me?” he manages at last, knowing not what else to say.

 

“I knew it would be hard on thee to bear it, for all that time alone,” Gwynsen murmurs, “but for selfish reasons, as well, for I... I did not want thee to seem ashamed of us, in my father's presence. I wanted thee to bear thyself proudly, as thou shouldst. Thou art my knight, and soon more.”

 

Ornstein feels weak. He perceives that he is now sitting on one of the room's stone benches. He has been guided there; Gwynsen has his hands braced on his knight's shoulders, standing with his body dripping wet from the bath. Ornstein waves him away as he comes back to himself. He should be the one assisting the prince, not the reverse.

 

“He did not ever make a sign of knowing,” he utters, his eyes downcast to the stone tiles. “Never did I suspect...”

 

“What didst thou expect my father to do?” Gwynsen asks, gently.

 

Ornstein shakes his head. This scenario he had at least imagined. “At best, a private reprimand,” he admits. “Something to make me remember my place. At worst... In my mind, I am not sure. Perhaps I thought I would be plucked naked from thy bed and paraded about the castle.”

 

He almost expects his prince to laugh, but he does not. “My father still holds thee in the highest esteem, Ornstein,” Gwynsen says, with surprising solemnity. “When he confronted me about it, he made it quite clear that he believed thou hadst been coerced into it.” Now Ornstein looks up, sharply, startled. “To hear him speak of it, thou wert only another of his prized possessions he bequeathed to me, that I, being an unfilial son, did not treat with respect.”

 

The thought is so vulgar that Ornstein actually shakes his head to rid himself of it. _Lord Gwyn believes me the type to open my legs, then, because my lord commands it?_ he thinks, his heart full of something disgraced and sad. For some reason, he thinks of the rumors of Lord Gwyn's trysts with all of those lower class women. _Perhaps that is the power a Lord has over his subjects_ , he muses, darkly. _Or the kind that certain Lords think they ought to have._

 

“What _exactly_ did he say?” he asks, quietly.

 

Gwynsen hesitates, expression darkening. “It was not kind, Ornstein,” he warns, unhappy. “It was designed only to hurt me, and never to reach thine ears, I am sure...”

 

“Please, tell me. I wish to know.” Ornstein's voice is resolute. He knows that he must hear the truth of Lord Gwyn's thoughts.

 

It is clear that the prince hates every word he is forced to utter, but he obeys.

 

“He asked how I was taking my pleasure from thee,” he says, with the sting of raw bitterness in his voice, “and advised me to use thy mouth... instead of taking thee from behind like a woman. It is important I leave thee undamaged – for thou art his _valuable knight_.”

 

Ornstein absorbs these words, carefully, and forces himself to nod. Gwynsen is right. They are cruel, unkind, reductive. “He sprung this on me casually as we were preparing to meet our guests for dinner,” the prince continues, his voice hot. “Like this, how can there be peace between us?! If someone, long ago, had said half such a thing about mother-”

 

As the prince breaks off, Ornstein's hand leaps to his. He is not even aware of his own movements until he feels the familiar pattern of calluses of Gwynsen's palm, still warm and wet from the bath. “I can bear it, my prince,” he assures him, steadily holding his gaze. “I know there are plenty who would say far worse, if they knew. But it is as thou sayest... I am not ashamed of us. No one shall have that power over me – not even Lord Gwyn.”

 

Gwynsen's hand tightens around his own. “I know how it pains thee to hear it, Ornstein,” he acknowledges, in a murmur. “Thou art loyal to my father, still. I do not begrudge thee for it.”

 

“He shared with me a fragment of his Lord Soul, the source of all his power. It is only for that that I am still here with thee, after all these centuries.”

 

This seems to make Gwynsen contemplative. “I think it was the best judgment he ever exercised,” he says at last. “Long have I known he was petty, and sometimes pride drives him to cruelty. And yet for the good of everyone I must find some way to make it work with him. I know ours is the way forward.”

 

Ornstein thinks of the way Lord Gwyn had spoken of his son, right to his very knight. _Gwynsen became everything his father wanted, and yet by Gwyn's admission he is still not enough._ Perhaps Gwynsen has the right to speak of the old Lord the same way.

 

“Promise to me thou wilt not keep secrets from me again.” Ornstein keeps his voice level, making sure it does not tremble. “If thou lovest me, thou wilt not hide things from me.”

 

Gwynsen nods, his eyes shining. “I swear it,” he promises, pressing a kiss to the inside of Ornstein's wrist.

 

“And do not abandon me again,” Ornstein adds, almost without thinking, but he cannot stop now that he has started. “My place is with thee.”

 

“And mine, with thee,” Gwynsen agrees softly.

 

* * *

 

When Gwynsen is dressed, he is unrecognizable from the figure that had imposed itself on Ornstein's window sill. His hair, still, is wild and untameable, but now it flows effortlessly behind him. The rich dyes of the fabric, too, mark him as a prince of the Gods. The only evidence of the wilds that Gwynsen had brought in with him are the dirt stains on Ornstein's doublet and breeches, worn still beneath his leonine armor.

 

Gwynsen nods to him. For the moment, they have already said all that they needed to say to each other. Ornstein returns the nod, and stands impassively as he watches the prince enter the throne room alone. What he would not give to go in with him, but that cannot be.

 

A long wait surely awaits him. He contemplates going back to his rooms and changing into fresh clothes. Likely there will be time to have servants draw a bath and be able to soak himself, now. It would be good to be clean when he reunites with Gwynsen again. Ornstein hopes it is true that they can go to the prince's rooms together, afterwards. _Lord Gwyn already knows_ , he thinks to himself, trying his best to acclimate himself to the ugly truth, as much as it pains him. _There would be no point in denying ourselves._

 

In the end, he simply stands there, waiting, as the hours tick by. He has been a soldier before. Waiting is an easy thing. Logic holds it should be even easier to do when he knows he shall see the one he yearns for at the end of the night.

 

Yet by the time his wait comes to an end, Ornstein has surely stood here for a year or more. The great doors open, and Gwynsen has an unknowable expression on his face as he emerges from the throne room. Clearly they have spoken of much, he and his father, for Ornstein sees the evidence of many thoughts and many emotions on him.

 

“Come,” he says only, to his knight, and they go together to the prince's rooms, and are not stopped by anyone.

 

* * *

 

Once alone, Ornstein strips from his armor for the second time that night, and Gwynsen does the same. They do not bother with bedclothes, and are both naked by the time they retreat into the prince's massive bed. Gwynsen's movements are unusually graceless; Ornstein can feel the exhaustion off him.

 

For this reason, he senses they shall not make love, but he cannot help but feel his body reacting to the memory of Gwynsen's touch, shared so many times underneath these sheets. The room, so sterile and empty before, feels alive with the prince within it.

 

As predicted, though, once Gwynsen's head hits the pillow, he does not look inclined to move again. Perhaps he feels unable to. Talking to his father for so many hours – the final count of which Ornstein does not even know, though it is still night outside – must have taken the last of his strength.

 

Ornstein wills his sensitive body to calmness just as Gwynsen tiredly winds one arm around him, but he must not be able to suppress a shiver, for the prince looks up, a faraway mischief in his eyes. He moves a hand down Ornstein's chest, still receptive to his touch, and tweaks a raised nipple between his fingers. Ornstein gasps. “Shall I have the servants light a fire, Ornstein?” the prince teases, observing him, “if thou art so cold.”

 

His knight still has the wherewithal to reply. “Do not start what thou dost not mean to finish, my prince,” he cautions, thinly. Ornstein's body craves his touch, but even moreso does his heart yearn to know the truth of his journey, straight from his lips. He would rather have that than some awkward and exhausted fumbling in the dark, when the prince can barely move.

 

“Sorry,” Gwynsen murmurs against his hair, though he does not sound very apologetic. “I promised thee answers.” His voice is almost faint from weariness, and Ornstein feels it through his chest moreso than hears it.

 

“It is late,” he forces himself to say, conciliatory. “Perhaps it can wait until thou hast a proper rest-”

 

“No. I know thou wishest to hear it from me as soon as possible... and I shall not break a promise to thee after I am so lucky to be back in thine arms again.”

 

There is no arguing with that. Ornstein stays quiet, his head pillowed against Gwynsen's shoulder, and listens. He feels a hand absently tracing lines into his back.

 

“I found that place that I pictured,” he hears. The prince's voice is distant, but for new reasons. Ornstein closes his eyes. “At first I traveled blindly, not knowing where I went, but then I felt myself guided again, and realized the path was laid out before me.”

 

“I cannot imagine such a quest,” Ornstein muses, quietly. “To know only hints of the destination, and not even be sure of the direction one walks in.”

 

“Perhaps that is another reason I could not bring thee, Ornstein,” Gwynsen says with some waggishness. “Thou wouldst have had me make a map, and refuse the journey if I could not produce one to thy satisfaction.”

 

Ornstein huffs without any anger. Gwynsen paints a not unreasonable caricature of him, but for one thing. “I would go wherever thou went, my prince,” he informs him, “even if it were only to wander in the desert.”

 

“...I know,” the prince replies, at length, and after a moment, takes up the tale again.

 

“All along the way, as I traveled... I felt myself growing more and more strange and unwelcome in that land. I began to feel that this was not my quest to undertake, that I was only a naïve and inexperienced prince, and in some moments I could not even remember that. I was a man – small, weak, and insignificant, eating whatever I could catch or pick with my own hands.”

 

This is an outrageous statement coming from the prince of the Gods – likely the mightiest warrior alive in the world. But Ornstein says nothing. “I thought of home often,” Gwynsen admits. “I wondered what my brother and sister were thinking of me. I thought of the task I left on thy shoulders and how expertly I knew thou wouldst handle my father and his councilors and all of the soldiers. Often I felt my own unworthiness.” He presses his face into Ornstein's hair. “Alone out in the wilderness, I pleasured myself to the thought of thee.”

 

The unexpected admission sends another tingle through Ornstein, one he does not need precisely at this moment. “And at the end of it all - what didst thou find?” he asks, unable to withhold his own curiosity any more.

 

“There was a cliff,” Gwynsen says, “and once summited: a winding cave that appeared just a ways under the precipice of it. I did not know why I risked my own life, but I went down into it and felt that I must wait to meet someone. And so there I sat, for days perhaps, feeling about as unlordly as a beggar in the street, after having spent so long wandering, satisfying my base needs and doing nothing else.”

 

“And someone came?”

 

The prince is quiet for a moment. “Indeed,” he says after a stretch. “Although when I saw him... my first idea was to take up my weapon.”

 

Ornstein angles his head so that he may see Gwynsen's face. “It was a dragon,” he speculates, evenly.

 

“Not a dragon, no, not quite,” the prince murmurs, “but a great wyvern, like none that I have ever seen. My mind initially traveled to Velka's ravens... for I sensed that he was, perhaps, not quite fully dragonkin. Then I realized that the cave where I stood was his home, for he did not dwell in a nest with others like him. He was alone.”

 

The picture in Ornstein's mind is haunting. He pictures a dark cave, littered with the bones of large prey animals, like so many nests he has seen before. And there Gwynsen stands, facing down a great wyvern alone. The thought brings a chill to him. _And what was I doing across the world while this was happening?_ he wonders. _Taking a walk with Quelaan? Chatting with Ciaran? Sitting down at dinner with the knights?_

 

“And he did not attack?” he questions.

 

“I was not sure if he would,” Gwynsen admits. “But instead of raising my blade, I simply sat down in peace, and waited for him to follow suit. And he did.”

 

“That was foolish,” Ornstein cannot help saying, his voice rising out of him. Of course the same thing might be said about the entire journey, but this new detail is what riles him. “Didst thou have a deathwish? No desire after all to return to Anor Londo?”

 

“It is not like that at all,” Gwynsen returns, sounding unhappy, and Ornstein is embarrassed into silence. “All of this I did because I felt, somehow... that this would help me one day to be a king. Besides my father, what king knows nothing of his enemies? What king is content to sit inside a castle and wait for the world to take shape, while he concerns himself only with his own legacy?”

 

Ornstein is still silent. “But in truth,” Gwynsen reveals, quietly, “it makes my selfish heart glad to hear thee scold me so.”

 

“Selfish indeed,” his knight retorts, his voice muffled as he leans into the prince's chest. “Selfish to set me imagining thy misfortune out in the world while I must stay behind and wonder if thou shalt return at all.”

 

“Unfair in every way,” Gwynsen agrees, “for were our positions reversed, I would have exercised all my Lordly power to get thee to stay. It would have been quite a spectacle.”

 

The prince continues his story, then. The great wyvern has no name, not even in his native tongue, but where he goes great squalls appear, and rain falls in bursts. Ornstein wonders how Gwynsen knows all this, but senses that they must have spoken somehow, perhaps in the same way employed by the dragon Haaluun. At first, apparently, they had only observed each other from opposite corners of the space, each aware of the other's power, and fear. But somehow, they had become something like friends. They had hunted together. Eaten of the same wild game. Once, even, the wyvern had allowed the prince onto his own back.

 

“Thou rodest on the back of a wyvern?” Ornstein repeats, hollowly. By now it should be enough to know the prince is presently safe at home where he belongs, but each new report is shocking all the same.

 

“I thought him too proud, at first,” Gwynsen says, “and in so thinking, realized that to me he was no beast, not anymore.”

 

“To each horse is a different temperament,” his knight cautions, “but still they remain beasts – ”

 

“He is not a horse. Nor a beast. Nor even properly a dragon.” Gwynsen takes a deep breath. “Just like us... they are children of fire.”

 

Ornstein looks over at him again, best he can as they lie together.

 

“Before the first flame, there were the everlasting dragons,” the prince says. “But only after we vanquished the bulk of them did these dragonkin emerge from the earth. They are not a side effect. Their fate, somehow, lies entwined with our own.”

 

Now Ornstein does prop himself up to behold his face more fully. “What is this thou sayest?” he murmurs.

 

“As we slaughter them, we may make haste to our own destruction. Ornstein... it is why the daughters of Izalith are here. They have observed the strength of the first flame diminishing, and have made appeals to my father to be allowed to seek the answers that he stubbornly refuses.”

 

This is far bigger than Ornstein had anticipated, even beyond his imaginings. “The first flame...?” he echoes. “It weakens? But-”

 

“It all sounds dire, Ornstein, I know, but have hope in thy heart, as I do,” Gwynsen murmurs, squeezing him around the middle just a little. “With Izalith of the same mind, we may yet convince my father. And there is more.” The prince takes a breath. “In the cave, I heard voices, and thought them far away somewhere, a trick of the echoes. But my friend soon informed me that they were the voices of the dragons themselves. There can be mutual understanding. We will meet each other, the Gods and the dragons. Even my father will set down his sword.”

 

_Peace between the Gods and the dragons? A peace brokered by Lord Gwyn?_ “Thy father... he would never...”

 

“He does not wish our world to end, Ornstein,” Gwynsen says, “and that will justify any means necessary... even parley with dragons.”

 

It is so much to digest. Perhaps even beyond the ability of a simple knight. For a while Ornstein cannot speak. It feels as though everything he had felt as the absolute truth is now shaken.

 

Finally, he feels another gentle pressure about his ribs as the prince tightens his embrace, just the slightest bit. It must be all he can manage right now. “It is a lot, I know. But now hast the truth of all of it, as much as I do.”

 

Ornstein shakes his head. “Thou returnest friends with a wyvern,” he muses. “And communing with dragons. And thy father approves all of it.”

 

“Oh, he approves it, but does not approve _of_ it,” the prince replies, almost a little impishly. “It is all like his worst nightmares, I am sure.”

 

They regard the ceiling together for a while. There cannot be much more to talk about while the hour is so late. In the morning, Ornstein knows, these new truths will be etched into his mind and he will have learned to live alongside them.

 

“I should like for thee to meet him,” Gwynsen says suddenly. “My friend, the King of the Storm. Wouldst thou be up to that task, my love?”

 

“I thought thou saidst he had no name.” Ornstein closes his eyes, a smile of amusement playing invisibly on his face. “Or hast thou given him one?”

 

“I have. I think it pleases him, though he does not say it.”

 

The knight takes a moment to consider what his prince describes. He tries to imagine himself face to face with a dragonkin, with calmness in his heart, and no intention of determining where to hurl his spear. It is a big ask, one that runs antithesis to all he has been trained to do, and in some manner the fact of it wounds his pride. _But it sounds as though we shall either adapt, or die. I am not so blind that I cannot perceive the truth of it._

 

“I cannot promise it will be a courteous meeting,” he begins, “or that I will come away from it feeling the same friendship that thou dost. But anyone who thou callest a friend will not be my enemy.”

 

Gwynsen kisses him then, chaste, on the forehead; perhaps the only place he can reach from this angle. Beneath him, Ornstein can feel the prince's muscles tensing the same way as when he wishes to do more. “ _My love,_ ” Gwynsen says only, the strain of exhaustion reaching his voice now, even as he holds his knight closer, and Ornstein feels the invisible pull between them.

 

Ornstein lifts himself up, again, so that he sits on his knees, as Gwynsen regards him with tired, but inevitable interest. Leaning down, he kisses the side of the prince's neck, taking stock of his soft breaths as he continues a trail down the line of his center, between his pectorals, down until he reaches the place which begs him for his attention.

 

“Stop,” Gwynsen urges suddenly, causing Ornstein to look up, surprised. “I am too drained to bring thee any pleasure of thy own,” the prince explains, his voice apparently strained with the effort of speaking.

 

So that is the heart of the problem. “This _would_ bring me pleasure, my love,” Ornstein assures him, pressing a kiss to his lower abdomen, which trembles beneath his visitation, “if thou wishest for it.”

 

He continues watching Gwynsen's face, waiting for a sign to act on. _Does he wonder if there is some small part of me that does this out of duty?_ he wonders, thinking again of the conversation the prince had apparently had with his father. _Rightfully, though, he does not insult me by implying it._ “Gwynsen,” he tries again. “Pray tell me if thou dost not desire this-”

 

“I do,” the prince insists, thickly, as if his heavy and swollen arousal teasing the side of Ornstein's face is not evidence enough.

 

“Then there is no reason we should not,” Ornstein murmurs, “for it is what I desire, also.” He still does not move, but waits for a signal, for permission.

 

At last, Gwynsen looses a soft groan, leaning his head back into his pillow as one hand threads into Ornstein's hair, and that is all the encouragement his knight needs. The prince is passive beneath him, but his voice is an active participant, his moans and gasps a precious sound that fills the room, and Ornstein does not feel used as Lord Gwyn suggests, but amazed with the power he possesses.

 

* * *

 

Hours later, Ornstein wakes. His throat is dry, but there beneath his cheek is the warm presence of Gwynsen, his breathing deep and evened by sleep. The prince has not tossed in his sleep like usual, but still embraces his knight in the same fashion as when they had drifted off together the night before. It makes Ornstein hesitate to disturb him. He senses that the sun will soon rise, but in the end, decides to stay nestled into Gwynsen's side for a while longer.

 

He must doze again, for when he comes to, it is to Gwynsen's lips pressing lazy kisses into his neck. “Awake now, my love,” he hears the prince hum. “It is dawn.”

 

Preparing to remove himself from the warmth of Gwynsen's bed is not easy even under ordinary circumstances, particularly not while the prince still clings to him, and particularly not when they have just gone months apart from each other. He wipes at one eye blearily, and struggles to extricate himself from underneath Gwynsen's arm.

 

“If thy intention was to kick me out,” he mumbles in teasing, “it would be easier to release me first, my prince.”

 

“Of course I do not wish to make thee go,” Gwynsen returns, a pout in his voice, “but thou didst once make me promise to wake thee if thou wert in my rooms after dawn-”

 

_Ah._ Ornstein remembers, now. At the time, he had extracted that promise from Gwynsen out of fear that word of their liaisons would travel up to Lord Gwyn, but there is hardly any danger from that, now. “ _And_ ,” Gwynsen murmurs, quiet and suddenly solemn, “I said I wished to begin making good on my promises to thee.”

 

Ornstein nods, heavily. “I thank thee for remembering,” he says, only.

 

“And now that thou art awake, wilt thou stay a while longer?”

 

In answer, Ornstein stretches back out under the warm sheets of the bed, suppressing what would have been a very wide yawn. He has spent much time in misery the last few weeks. The prospect of one more joyful hour has too strong a pull. Besides, the smile that blooms on Gwynsen's face is too beautiful.

 

The prince leans forward and kisses him, and they spend a while in kissing, their pace unhurried and slow like the unfurling bloom of the dawn outside. Gwynsen's arms are wound tight around Ornstein's waist, and for once his hands do not wander in mischief as they usually do. For his part, his knight touches every bit of his prince that he can reach, taking in and committing to memory the new shape of him, recent injuries and all.

 

A soft, yet urgent knocking on the door breaks their reverie. At Ornstein's wide-eyed expression, the prince presses a kiss to his forehead. “Sounds like a messenger,” he murmurs, his features drawn. “Duck beneath, if thou wishest.”

 

Ornstein has no time to contemplate the sheer silliness of this as Gwynsen, with a hint of playfulness now, pulls the blankets just over Ornstein's ears, so that he will be invisible from the entryway. “Come in,” he calls, only loud enough so that his voice will carry past the door.

 

Though he cannot see, Ornstein hears the brisk sounds of the door opening, and the servant taking a single step into the room. “I come with a message for Sir Ornstein,” comes the shocking message.

 

Not wishing to prolong the folly of this, Ornstein pushes the sheets away from his upper body, sitting up to look the unfortunate messenger in the eye. _“Yes?”_ he inquires.

 

The man's features are utterly impassive. If he has any opinions about witnessing the firstborn prince and his first knight abed together, they do not show on his face. “Lord Gwyn wishes to meet thee in the council room in an hour's time.” Ornstein nods. Unexpected meetings like this have not been unusual over the last few weeks. “The prince is also welcome to attend, if he is feeling recovered.”

 

“My thanks, _thou art dismissed_ ,” Gwynsen calls, as soon as the message is delivered, and the servant dutifully bows and is gone, the door closing behind him. The prince settles back into bed, pulling Ornstein with him and fitting them together again.

 

“It was almost normal, just now,” Ornstein comments after a long moment has passed. He turns to look at Gwynsen, who is watching him carefully.

 

“Indeed,” the prince agrees, his features soft. “What do thy feelings say?”

 

Ornstein looks at the ceiling now, his thoughts all a mess. Strangely, there is no horror or shame in the aftermath of being called upon this way. “I do not feel much besides contentment,” he realizes, after a moment, “with an amount of ordinary disappointment that I must soon leave thee again.”

 

Gwynsen kisses him again, long and lingering, leaning over him in the bed with his weight on one elbow. “It is good to imagine what this could be like,” Ornstein continues headily, when they draw apart for breath, “if it were a normal and expected thing that we should be together like this. Would that every morning hereafter could be like this one.”

 

Something in Gwynsen's expression shifts, then, his gaze suddenly intense, eyes focused and vulnerable. Absently his fingers wind through the thin strands of red hair that linger over his knight's face. Ornstein peers up at him, curiously.

 

“They will be,” Gwynsen says at last. “If thou wilt allow it.”

 

Ornstein does not stop watching him, his breath stilled in his chest, as the prince leans over out of bed, and returns with something closed in his palms. That is where Ornstein's stare lingers, now.

 

“I entertained many ideas of how to do this,” Gwynsen murmurs. “But in my mind I returned always to the thing I most desire from a life with thee: to wake up together at our leisure, so that I do not have to watch thy retreating form before the sun is even risen.”

 

As if from far away, he sees the shape of the two simple, unadorned gold rings in Gwynsen's uncurled hand, a matched pair, but he still is at a loss for what to say as he looks questioningly into the prince's eyes.

 

“If thou wouldst accept,” Gwynsen assures him, perhaps seeing the confusion in his features, “then we shall be married. It is all settled with father.”

 

_Lord Gwyn accepts this?! Lord Gwyn, who advised his son to use my_ mouth _, now wants to make me equal to his own children?_ So many thoughts enter his mind all at once, but above all, he cannot fight the specter of disbelief.

 

“My love, it is a trick,” he hears himself whisper. He cannot see any possible advantage Lord Gwyn or his family would get from this match; from their union there will be no strategic alliance, no exchange of secrets, not even the promise of heirs. Ornstein is already the prince's first knight. _It is an elaborate punishment somehow,_ he thinks in a rush, as his heart beats a furious rhythm. _A trap for us to fall into._

 

“It was discussed at length,” Gwynsen explains, ever patient, though Ornstein senses the tension in him. _He waits for me to accept him, as if it is possible I will say no, even though he has already posed me this question once before._ “The details have been gone over as part of our agreement; he allows it so to make peace with me. I will tell thee _all of it_ in full– ”

 

His knight's attention is on the rings again, contemplating their impossible solidness, each the other's complement. He reaches out and touches one, tracing its shape, feeling the warmth transferred from Gwynsen's hand into the metal.

 

“Pray believe me,” the prince implores, his voice soft, “but I offer myself to thee freely. I have already leaned heavily on thy trust, Ornstein. Wilt thou lend me more of it, and allow me this honor? For it is the only one I want.”

 

Ornstein kisses him then, ardently, and is slow to pull away as he calls upon all his waking strength to force down the skittish thoughts which plague him. There will always be time for doubt, but it cannot be now, not when his heart longs to be free of it, just for a moment. “If it is somehow possible that our being wedded depends entirely upon my answer...” he breathes, feeling the shape of a tear as it winds freely down his cheek, “then I accept. Of course I shall.”

 

The happiness on Gwynsen's face is so complete that Ornstein is spellbound for a moment, unable to look anywhere else. He feels their fingers interlacing together, somewhere, on top of the sheets. So many wild questions are beginning to form just underneath the surface of him, but for now, he holds them at arm's length, and holds Gwynsen closer.

 

The world of today looks a great deal different this morning than it had the one previous, its problems and anxieties new and unfamiliar. But now, he feels faith that they shall handle them, side-by-side.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have you ever written a novel-length fanfiction just to come up with a painstaking excuse for your otp to get married... because I have
> 
> everything seems to be going ok, which is definitely the status quo forever for dark souls characters, always happy and never in pain! hope you did not mind a very mushy chapter, and they spent half of it naked (I am, personally, scandalized)
> 
> next we find out: the implications of all of this crazy stuff, and see some different characters again :D


	8. Moonlight Vigil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ornstein seeks to know the curious customs of the Gods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments! ❤️ This chapter got a bit lengthy as a lot had to be fit into it, but didn't want to split it up - I hope you enjoy!
> 
> fun grammar note: I forgot to mention I saw a tumblr post recently about correct use of archaic english and apparently “you” (and "ye", but I don't think I could get used to it) is used for both plural and deference! I'm trying it out here with generally the same understanding as tu/vous in French, so Ornstein uses “you” for members of the royal family (except NK) and someone like a servant uses it for the knights in general. Probably still getting a lot of things wrong but it's fun to learn stuff and incorporate it as I go :)
> 
> Also made reference to a “Pontiff” here, but only so far as the position is concerned! No Sulyvahn implied here I think, got too many characters as it is!

 

* * *

 

The world outside of the prince's bedroom is not so warm and amber-hued and soft, nor are its edges dulled over by ambient morning light. As he walks to Lord Gwyn's council chambers (alone, for Gwynsen has decided to meet with the healers in light of his injuries) a part of Ornstein fancies that everything that transpires in that room is somehow memories carried over from a dream state, where fantasies are transposed over reality.

 

The meeting proceeds with nothing out of the ordinary. The squad leaders come with reports from the field, and Lord Gwyn makes his usual displeased faces. Ornstein eyes the old Lord, curiously, wondering if anything shall come up of the plan that he has only just learned of himself.

 

_Parley. With the dragons, of all creatures._ It is a major thing, and cannot forever go unmentioned among these most trusted advisors. But still Lord Gwyn commits to nothing, only agrees with the need for further study of the wyverns' behavior, and Ornstein wonders.

 

When the advisors and soldiers have left, Lord Gwyn beckons for Ornstein to follow, and together they emerge onto the parapets overlooking Anor Londo.

 

Even walking side-by-side, the Lord's mood is inscrutable. Ornstein is practiced at calm, at collected, and this tries even his nerves. After the full extent of the conversation he has had with Gwynsen this morning, it is that much more daunting to guess at his father's thoughts. At last, when he thinks he cannot stand it any longer – Gwyn speaks.

 

“I wonder how we shall sell them on this inverted dragon hunt, Ornstein,” Gwyn grumbles.

 

His knight lets out a bit of the breath he is holding. “Whatever logic worked on you, my Lord, shall surely do its work on them as well,” he concludes.

 

“Nothing short of this dire business with the first flame could have moved me,” Gwyn growls, “and how do you think the common man would react if he knew of that?”

 

_Not very well, I'd imagine._ Now they pass an arms tower, and Ornstein is vaguely aware of silver knights far above, watching them as they go below.

 

“Everyone in Lordran shall know the truth of this on a timeline according with their position,” Gwyn gruffs, pensively. “The average people should not know until it is all resolved, or a solution divined.”

 

“That is assuming the Witch does not tell them, my Lord,” Ornstein points out, and Gwyn makes a vague, perturbed noise.

 

They pass more of the walk together in silence. It is a brisk, bright day, one that seems full with the promise of many things, Ornstein thinks, and yet there is an anxiety in his gut that will not resolve itself until he knows a different truth.

 

It is Lord Gwyn that breaks the spell, as they pass from the bright of the outside into the solemn gloom of the inner hold, and stop.

 

“Ornstein, how many years hast thou spent in my service, not asking me for anything?”

 

And now, the lion knight _knows_ , as he has _known_ many things, that they have breached this fateful subject at last. “I do not count the years as they go by, my Lord,” he replies, truthfully. How good it would have felt to answer that the reason he did not ask was because he did not want for anything! And once upon a time he would have said it without hesitation.

 

But that time is past. “Long hast thou been my loyal knight,” Lord Gwyn continues. “We have seen many generations of soldiers come to glory in this castle, the both of us, but never have I questioned my wisdom in making thee one of my most trusted confidants, and bestowing upon thee a long life so that I may seek thee out, always.”

 

Ornstein's lips feel tight at the edges; for a time, he cannot answer. Gwyn's words are gracious, and for that reason more than perhaps anything else, it makes his heart uneasy. “It has always been my pleasure to serve at your side, my Lord,” he responds at last, knowing there is no way to cleverly maneuver himself out of this trap.

 

A lull ensues, for a time. And then:

 

“The way forward would have been clear, if in thy place it had been some unimportant common girl.”

 

Ornstein has no response for this. He stares rigidly ahead, allowing the words to wash over him.

 

“I would have seen this affair as an advantage from the start,” Lord Gwyn continues. “How easy such a wench would have been to manipulate! And if the situation called for desperate measures, I could have sent her away or even made threats against her life.”

 

_How casually he talks of cruel things._ Still he cannot speak.

 

“And even if my son could be compelled to marry suitably,” rumbles Gwyn, “How long until we all would have to endure the whispers of how he finds himself in the arms of his dragonslayer at night? One servant can be silenced, indeed, but not an entire castle.”

 

_I would not do that. I would never do that._ But he realizes, suddenly, he cannot give voice to the words. Until this moment, he had believed them to be true. _Would I accept a wedded prince into my bed if it were the only way to have him?_ It does not matter. He does not have to endure such wonderings, not anymore.

 

“I will not insult you in asking for forgiveness,” he manages, stiffly, “but I was told you had given this union your blessing. Is that not true?”

 

Lord Gwyn surprises him then.

 

“Is this thy wish, Ornstein?”

 

He turns, finally looking the old Lord in the eye. As always, his expression is impenetrable.

 

“...My Lord?”

 

“Dost thou wish to be wed to my son?”

 

Ornstein swallows, thickly. He remembers Gwynsen's words, how Lord Gwyn believed him coerced. He does not know what will result from setting the record straight. “Yes, my Lord,” he answers, unable to stop his emotions from spilling over into his voice.

 

“In answering, know that thou shalt be joined with this family for ever,” Lord Gwyn says, and coming from his lips it sounds almost like a warning.

 

Now Ornstein shakes his head. “Is that not what marriage is?” he asks, quietly. “And in truth, am I not already bound to thy blood by oath?”

 

Lord Gwyn smiles, now, a small smirking thing. “Indeed, one vow shall be substituted for another,” the old Lord says. “With thy consent, then – in just over a fortnight, the waxing moon is fortuitous. It shall take place then.”

 

Just like that, then, this impossible union now has a date and time. “ _Why?_ ” Ornstein asks, helplessly, because in that moment he is the very picture of a fool. He cannot let this sit without knowing what forces allow this to occur.

 

Lord Gwyn fixes him with an intense stare. “Because, Ornstein,” he says, after an endless moment has passed. “After these long years, I love thee like a son.”

 

And now it is all the proud knight can do not to gape like a fish.

 

“As for the rest of the details, my firstborn shall give thee the summation. Go, now, and carry on thy duties.”

 

* * *

 

How is it possible to carry on with ordinary life after such a talk with Lord Gwyn? Yet there is much business to oversee in the castle.

 

The soldiers await an explanation of the firstborn prince's absence and return, and Ornstein must be the mouthpiece through which to give them the information that Lord Gwyn allows them to know.

 

By the time he reaches his dragonslayers, it is readily apparent that something is highly out of the ordinary.

 

“Captain,” they greet, looking expectant, and Ornstein wonders what they want of him.

 

“What news has reached you?” he asks, not wishing to guess.

 

They look to each other, wondering. “We have been visited by Lord Gwyn, captain, and told of our mission,” one says.

 

_Mission?_

 

Ornstein dislikes to be caught off-guard – but he can work his way around it. “Repeat to me your understanding of this mission, then,” he commands, betraying no signs of his ignorance.

 

The mission is this: the parley with the dragons shall be arranged in a few months' time. _After the wedding, should it occur,_ Ornstein thinks, unbidden, which seems to him to be a good thing. ( _If this all were trickery,_ he thinks, _the order of events might have been reversed.)_ The dragonslayers are to accompany Lord Gwyn and his party, and see that they have safe passage to the arranged meeting place. They are there to act as deterrents, Ornstein gathers, not as guards. _But will the dragons consent to a peaceful parley, seeing so many equipped to kill them?!_

 

“Very good,” he says only. Lord Gwyn hates to repeat himself; perhaps this is how he wished to convey this message to Ornstein himself. He shall have enough lordly business to handle in the meantime.

 

The knights already know how to move in formation, to guard a small group. He trains them regardless, and they practice traveling stealthily, and defending their flank against attack.

 

Gwyndolin assists them, today. It was not until Ornstein was halfway through giving the knights their direction that he had noticed the little Lord standing there, but just like always he agrees to summon his illusory dragons, and sends them barreling through the sky to surprise them, passing in and out of shadow.

 

After the training is concluded, one of the spearmen – Kolten is his name – seems to think it appropriate to address Gwyndolin directly. “Imagine how fortune were to favor us if you were to accompany us, my Lord,” he says, aiming for praise.

 

The Dark Sun seems less than impressed by this comment, and Ornstein can imagine the friendly flogging the man will endure at dinner later. “But I _shall_ be with you, Sir Knight,” he remarks, his tone unmistakably haughty, and now Ornstein is surprised, too. He had not expected Gwyndolin to be part of their company on this mission. Until this moment, he was sure only of himself, Gwynsen, and Lord Gwyn, and perhaps a few advisors. “Didst thou think my father under the impression that I cannot hold my own in the presence of dragons and knights?”

 

Kolten stammers, in a very unknightly fashion. No gallantry seems forthcoming from his fellows, so Ornstein must rescue him. “We shall be very glad to have you along with us, my Lord,” he acknowledges, with a courteous nod.

 

He has time to ponder this curious exchange on his way through the knight barracks. He almost does not see Artorias and Ciaran, sitting together under the shadow of a hanging banner. “I say, is that our captain?” Ciaran remarks in greeting, with exaggerated cheer. “My, but thou art walking _surprisingly well_ today.”

 

It takes a moment for the implication of her comment to seep through, but once it does, Ornstein attempts his best reproachful stare. However, he cannot keep the shadow of a grin off his face.

 

“Stay mindful of thy own business, please, Ciaran,” he chastises as he goes, “or I shall ask Artorias to mind thee.”

 

He does not have time to enjoy whatever effect his response produces.

 

* * *

 

Ornstein plans on a brief stop to his rooms before the dining hour. It has been a long day already, and he has not had time to process it all.

 

_Yesterday, I did not even know if I would ever see the prince again_ , he thinks.

 

His mind feels as though it is stuck on an endless loop, doubting the validity of his own memories. _Lord Gwyn said to me he loved me as a son._ Was that true? If it was, could such a reason possibly move him? The very thought of it almost goes beyond his imagining. _Lord Gwyn favors advantages_ , he thinks as he winds through the halls, _and the only advantage to this match is that we shall be happy. Is it folly to wonder if that is enough?_

 

Alas, he is brought out of his thoughts altogether by the sight of a giant servant moving out of Ornstein's rooms, hauling what appears to be his trestle table.

 

Ornstein stares dumbly as the servant passes. Then he peers within. The room is changed; the servants are spreading fresh bedding and moving things about.

 

“Excuse me,” he ventures, for he does not know where to begin.

 

One of the servants, a short and slender girl, sees him and bows. “Sir Ornstein,” she greets. “Would you like some assistance locating your new rooms?”

 

_New rooms?_ He fumbles for words as he looks about the familiar walls, taking note of what has changed. _Gone is that painting I liked – the holy parish and its belltower._ “There is surely no need for all this,” he appeals after a time.

 

“It is Lord Gwyn's command,” the servant responds only, and Ornstein sees that he shall have no say.

 

“Lead the way, then, if thou wouldst, please,” he replies, and amuses himself by vaguely hoping that he is not being put in the stables somewhere.

 

* * *

 

Of course it occurs to him that this fuss must relate somehow to the wedding, but still he feels a small measure of shock ripple through him as the servant leads him into the royal family's wing of the castle.

 

They pass the rooms of the princes and of the princess, and for one delirious moment Ornstein wonders if he shall be moved directly into Gwynsen's room, engagement be damned. He should not be surprised that they continue right past. _We do away with tradition, but not decorum._

 

“Here,” the servant indicates, and Ornstein finds them standing before an unfamiliar door, the likes of which he has never closely inspected before. Perhaps he had figured it for a store room or a guest room, for he knows at least it does not house any member of the royal family. “My thanks,” he tells her, and she bows and turns away.

 

When she is gone, Ornstein pushes open the door, suddenly hesitant, as if he shall intrude upon some poor courtier dressing for dinner. But no one is within: only a magnificent bed, robed in pale ivory silk; a painting of a holy parish, and its magnificent belltower; and a simple, but oft-used trestle table for resting armor when not in use.

 

He stares at the bed as he approaches – the most obviously unfamiliar thing in the room – and tests it with one hand. It is a bit too soft for his own tastes, but he's grown used to such plushness when he sleeps beside Gwynsen, whose preferences do not precisely line up with his own. He sits down on it now, facing the door, and wonders.

 

There surely exists some significance to being moved like this, but he does not know it. He looks to his left, and is surprised that the room links into its own smaller chamber, for bathing. For some reason, this makes him apprehensive. It is unlike any room he has ever laid claim to before.

 

He hears a soft rapping at the door. He has heard it before, and places it after a moment – unless he is mistaken, it is Gwynevere's knock. “Come in,” he calls, rising from the bed.

 

The Sun Princess appears in the doorway, and at once it is like a fire glows in the hearth of the dark room. “Sir Ornstein,” she greets, “My apologies - I meant to intercept thee before the move.”

 

So he has not been entirely forgotten, then – but he surely did not expect Gwynevere herself to come to him. “No apologies necessary, my Lady,” he assures her, not quite forgetting to use her given name, as she had requested, but not yet comfortable enough to do it, now, “though I admit to being a bit confused.”

 

“Do not worry, I shall explain all to thee.”

 

Gwynevere takes a few steps in. Her voice has a strange timbre, and as she draws closer, Ornstein is shocked to see that her eyes are brimming with bright tears. “I have heard the happy news,” she says, “and I cannot tell thee how it gladdens my heart.”

 

Ornstein's breath stills. In truth, he had not known how she would react. _I had the distinct feeling she had been rather rooting for the successes of her sisters from Izalith._ “I am happy too, my Lady,” he says, earnestly, after an awkward moment, because it is at least, the truth.

 

“There were times when I did suspect,” Gwynevere confesses, now, “but when confronting my brother, so long ago, he only laughed and told me I did not understand such things.” Ornstein nods, though the truth of this stuns him and leaves him, honestly, a little hurt, to know Gwynevere was so open to the truth and yet was not trusted. _I feel we could have avoided much pain, having a confidant in his own family._ “But he is so happy, now, Sir Ornstein, to not have to cling to falsehoods, to share in his happiness.”

 

It is so much warmth. Ornstein does not know how to react to it. He continues to nod, thickly, trying to maintain his composure in front of the princess. _The princess who may truly become my sister._ “Wilt thou sit down, here?” she asks, suddenly, and indicates towards a small vanity he had not noticed before.

 

Somewhat lost, he obeys, sitting on a four-legged stool before the trifold mirror. Gwynevere kneels beside him, so that she is only just above eye level despite her advanced height, and he tries not to betray his surprise when she reaches for a hairbrush on the table. “May I?” she asks.

 

The implication does not make sense for a moment. “Of course,” he manages, as though there is any other answer, but he cannot quite reckon with the reality of the princess reaching up to touch his long ponytail until she has freed his hair and let it hang loose around his face. She wields the brush skillfully, though she has so many handmaidens who must be able to take care of this for her.

 

“Thou art turning red as thy hair,” she teases him, after a moment, which does not help matters. “I should have sent a servant, but I knew thou wouldst only send them away.”

 

The answer further confuses him, but he starts with his original question. “Are these to be my new rooms?” he asks. It is not like he is proud – though perhaps his fellow knights would argue – but it does not escape his notice that this is a room fit for a noble lady, not for a knight. He does not want to believe he is being made mockery of.

 

“It is only for a little while, of course,” Gwynevere assures him. “When thou weddest my brother, thou shalt be with him in his rooms.” Which still does not quite explain the reason for the move.

 

Putting that question aside for now, he makes a small noise of acknowledgment, trying to hold his head still as Gwynevere combs through his long hair. It is a strange feeling – he cannot remember the last time he entrusted this task to another person. The prince, of course, likes to play with his hair, but more often does he muss it up than the reverse.

 

After a time, Gwynevere gathers his hair up, meaning to tie it back again. She rearranges it a bit, perhaps used to doing a lower style, until she gets it into an exact mimic of Ornstein's usual high ponytail, and he sees her produce something from within one of the vanity table's drawers.

 

It is a small golden hair ornament. In the mirror's reflection, he sees her fitting the cuff over where his long hair is tied.

 

“We must go below, soon,” Gwynevere says, “to join my father and brothers outside the royal hall. I imagine the knights and courtiers are gathered there already, now.”

 

“Why?” Ornstein asks, filled with a sudden confusion that borders on anxiety. This day has been so long – he turns over his memories, trying to ensure he has not forgotten some important event.

 

“It is only the announcement of the engagement,” she tells him, as if this will set his nerves at ease.

 

_Now? Today? But how can it be so soon?_ Ornstein sits there, dumbly, uncomprehending. “Do not worry,” she continues after a pause, sounding a little teasing, like her brother. “Thou shalt only have to stand and look noble while my father speaks. We both have experience enough in that, I am sure.”

 

This more than anything else, though, sets his mind rolling. “What exactly shall be said? Can it not be delayed a while?” he asks, a rising edge of panic in his voice. If this announcement happens, then in only a little while everyone in the castle shall know the truth all at once. It is not something he reckoned for, not yet. “I am not yet prepared –”

 

“Please, relax,” Gwynevere urges, her voice soothing, and surprisingly calm. Ornstein cannot help but sink back a little into the seat. “Thou forgettest it is my father's job to glorify such events, and give the people unexpected truths in such a way that they are celebrated.” She rises a little on her knees, now. “They shall accept my brother marrying his knight if _the mighty Lord Gwyn_ tells them to. Besides... thou art as comely as any woman.”

 

The comment makes Ornstein flush. It is not exactly the kind of compliment he angles for, but from Gwynevere's lips it must be high praise.

 

“There.” Resting her hands, she joins him in regarding his reflection. Ornstein has just watched her work and knows she has done relatively little, yet somehow it seems to him that his appearance is much changed. Is it the effect of sitting so close to the Princess of Sunlight, or has she somehow weaved some of her natural glow into his hair? Or maybe it is the work of the golden ornament. “We are ready to descend, I think.”

 

Ornstein looks down. “Shall I wear my armor?” he asks, hesitant. “Forgive me, but I do not know the etiquette for this–”

 

“Thou shalt wear thy armor from the neck down, I believe,” Gwynevere says, sounding as though she is determining the answer for herself, “perhaps with the helm under one arm. It is part of thy image, after all. But thou cannot wear the lion's face and appear too much a soldier, for the message we send is that we are bringing thee into our family.”

 

It would have brought him some manner of comfort to be able to mask himself behind the helm, but Gwynevere's words make sense. It will all be well, he thinks, so long as he can stop the bloom of red from appearing on his cheeks.

 

“It is all happening so soon,” he remarks, quietly.

 

Gwynevere turns a kind smile upon him. “I hope thou wilt forgive the way my family conducts our affairs,” she says. “for in this castle some things are done with intolerable slowness, and others with great haste. I apologize if it was thy wish for a longer engagement, but in this, at least, I think my father and elder brother are of one mind.”

 

He cannot begrudge them this. “I see no reason to delay,” he agrees, his voice still barely above a murmur. “I am sure that my feelings shall remain always unchanged.”

 

The princess' steady smile is still fixed on him. It is hard to look directly at it. “Come now,” she says. “We are awaited by our family.”

 

* * *

 

Gwynevere leads him to a chamber just outside Lord Gwyn's main audience hall. Ornstein can hear the steady buzz of people in the next room, and suppresses a shudder. This room is not quite walled off – no doors separate them from the throngs of people outside.

 

It feels surprisingly crowded back here. Ornstein sees Quelaan and Quelaag and is able to appraise at once how much they know, from the way they eye him as he walks in. Their body language is not unfriendly, but more than anything, they seem apprehensive. _The issue of the first flame must be more pressing to them than whatever happens here,_ he thinks, and cannot blame them. Still, Quelaan returns a little smile of greeting at him.

 

“Captain,” he hears, and instantly his heart lightens as he sees Artorias fast approaching, trailed by Ciaran and Gough. _They will stand with us, too, then._ “Pray tell – it is all true?”

 

“That shall depend on what you have heard,” Ornstein replies, smoothly, but takes pity on his friend when Artorias still seeks an answer in his eyes. “But yes... the truth is as shocking as whatever thou art imagining.”

 

Exhaling annoyedly, Ciaran tries to pry Artorias away, with limited success. “Wilt thou still be one of us?” the wolf knight asks.

 

Ornstein's lips tighten. It is a question, among many, that he has furiously wondered, himself, but there has not been a single spare moment since this morning to find out. “Surely so,” he replies, to no one's satisfaction.

 

Gough makes a contemplative noise. “Interesting indeed,” the giant puts in, simply.

 

His fellows step away to give him some room to breathe, turning their attention to Gwynevere who moves to speak with them, and Ornstein's eyes barely have time to scan the rest of the small gathering before he feels a warm, familiarly-callused hand slide into his own grip.

 

“Ornstein!” Gwynsen calls, too loudly as he draws near. The prince sounds mildly distressed, but, Ornstein observes, so much of his natural color is restored, and he appears to have already so much more vitality in him than he did yesterday, or even this morning. “Forgive me– I did not warn thee about this–”

 

“Thy sister has given me an idea of what to expect,” Ornstein assures him, giving his hand a squeeze before releasing it. He smiles steadily, and looks him in the eyes. “I think I am ready.”

 

Gwynsen returns the smile, relief and fondness flooding into his own features.

 

“I have wanted to see thee all day. Canst thou be spared tomorrow? The weather will be fine for traveling on foot-”

 

Ornstein halts him with a raised hand. “Of whatever thou speakest, it may wait a while, can it not?” He is not sure he can handle yet another unexpected thing thrust upon him just at this very moment. _And he is supposed to tell me more about our marriage. When we have a moment to speak, it is that which I wish to speak of._

 

Finally, Lord Gwyn gestures, and everyone in the room comes to attention, words dying on tongues mid-sentence. They make their way, one after the other, into the audience hall. Lord Gwyn's appearance has a similar effect, there in the expansive room, for suddenly all of Anor Londo must be as silent as the grave.

 

The throne in this gallery is raised from the crowd by a number of high stone steps. The effect is that now, they all stand together high above the rest of the court, looking down over them. The assembled guests – nobles and knights, both – look up at the old Lord, spellbound, as if his every word shall speak truth into the fabric of the world. The rest of them are only secondary attractions, Ornstein thinks, as he stands beside Gwynsen, where he is subtly guided.

 

“My friends,” Lord Gwyn booms, though his voice echoes already into the all-embracing walls. “Many moons ago you joined me in welcoming our friends from Izalith. They are Quelaag and Quelaan: daughters of a Lord and accomplished pyromancers, both. The truth is that their mission in coming here was more than diplomatic, and so I tell you today that they shall be joining myself and my kin on an important quest.

 

“From now on, they shall be merely guests no longer,” Gwyn bellows, “but my warriors and advisors until their stay is complete. Let it be known that from this point on, they shall command the full respect afforded to any knights of mine!”

 

Quelaan and Quelaag make small obeisances to Lord Gwyn, conveying the honor they feel it is to be named so. _Probably they would have liked another honor better,_ Ornstein thinks, _but it seems the peace is kept with them and their help secured regardless_. That is a very fortunate thing.

 

He keeps his eyes above the crowd, staring into the middle distance as the rest of them do. His body is a statue, rooted in place, and he keeps an impassive look on his face, as the cheers and applause for Gwyn's new advisors dies down, and the people seem to feel the weight of another upcoming announcement. His heart beats faster, knowing that soon, every eye will be turned upon him.

 

It is a strange thing. He is used to having his spear – near him, Artorias and Ciaran and Gough all have their weapons, helmeted, their faces masked, completing their picture as knights of Lord Gwyn. But here he stands, with his helm under one arm, somewhere between a knight and something else.

 

“And now, to you all, who are such loyal friends of my family,” Gwyn calls out, to the courtiers and the silver knights and everyone else perhaps in all of Anor Londo, “It is my duty to you to announce a joyous occasion: that my family opens to accept another.”

 

Though already the audience was quiet, captivated by Lord Gwyn, Ornstein can feel the effect these words produce. Perhaps it is the way he can sense the crowd's eyes suddenly sweeping furiously over all of them who are up here, standing side-by-side on the dais, looking for some betrayal of the truth on them. “This man,” Lord Gwyn continues, drawing every eye to him again, “has been many centuries in our service, a true friend and companion to my family, as true to me as if he were, indeed, my own son. It is my honor to formally make it so.”

 

There are definitely people looking at him, now. _I am not wearing my helm_ , Ornstein thinks, _and I am the only one standing so close to the royal family._ What must they all think? _That I wed Gwynevere, most likely_ , he realizes, and tries very hard not to look to his right, at Gwynsen, who stands as poised and motionless as he does.

 

“Dragonslayer Ornstein,” Lord Gwyn says, “has accepted my firstborn son.”

 

Ornstein only stares ahead. He remembers Gwynevere's words. _Thou shalt only have to stand and look noble while my father speaks._ It is true, he does have experience in this, but never was it so difficult as when he feels the weight of a thousand stares passing between himself and Gwynsen.

 

“This union will take place on the fifth day after the new moon,” the old Lord declares. Then there are some more words about who shall be in attendance, and some more pretty words after, Ornstein, as always, is impressed with the old Lord's oratory skills, so momentous and impassioned when he wishes it.

 

Do they applaud now? Bow to him? For how Lord Gwyn has, in essence, made him into another prince? So many unexpected things are happening, and somehow, the castle does not come down around them, but as Gwynevere had said, the people of Anor Londo have already accepted the fact that the firstborn son of their mighty Lord – the heir to the kingdom of sunlight – will be marrying not for power or glory nor even for children, but seemingly, for love.

 

When the surreal event is concluded, Ornstein notices he has caught Quelaag's eye, and he breaks away from the family just long enough to catch a word with her. “I apologize if you were mislead at any point,” he manages to say. “It was nobody's intention to make a fool of your family-”

 

The witch's daughter only gives him an interesting smile.

 

“I am sure you all will have upset my mother,” she says, “but with luck, she shall be sufficiently amused picturing the unenviable position of thy new father.”

 

* * *

 

“Well,” Gwynsen attempts, through panting breaths, after his voice begins to return, “I hope that was... a worthier reunion.”

 

Ornstein opens his eyes just enough to regard him, though even the dim light in this room looks momentarily too bright. “We have broken a few rules, I think,” he manages after he levels his own breathing, his voice teasing. Somehow, it seems a bit impious to be profaning the prince's bed so soon after the announcement of their upcoming marriage.

 

“Oh Ornstein,” the prince says, with obvious delight now, “Everyone in Anor Londo knows we're fucking.” Ornstein gives him the most peevish look he can summon, with the prince's cock still in him, which turns out to be not very menacing at all, particularly when Gwynsen rocks their joined hips again, just in taunting. “And I know thou art not complaining.”

 

“Certainly not.” Ornstein nudges him off and out, now. “I have just been chaste for months because of thee. Had we to wait another three weeks I would have called our engagement too long.”

 

“Oh, not even thy hand, Ornstein?”

 

Ornstein gives him a look. “On occasion, yes.”

 

He feels truly relaxed like this, though it defies logic: much has weighed on his mind as of late, and getting the unexpected approval of Lord Gwyn has not solved his problems by any means. Thankfully this bed, and these rooms, still seem to serve as a barrier between the two of them and the outside world.

 

Many questions remain to be answered, regarding the marriage, but for some reason that is not what he asks now. “What wert thou speaking of earlier, my prince? Something about traveling, tomorrow.”

 

“Not thy prince,” Gwynsen says, unexpectedly, kissing him on the cheek.

 

“...Pardon?”

 

“I mean, soon it shall seem strange for thee to call me that.”

 

That is one thing Ornstein had not considered. “What shall I call thee, then?” he asks after a moment, feeling almost a little shy.

 

“Thou shalt call me by my name, of course, and I shall do the same for thee.”

 

“And what if I must refer to thee when speaking to another?” Almost everyone makes reference to _the_ _firstborn prince_ if they need to talk about Gwynsen. Even Lord Gwyn calls him _my firstborn_ , Ornstein notes.

 

“Hmm.” Gwynsen considers. “I cannot think of any reason why thou couldst not simply say _my husband_.”

 

_Ah._ And now it is all so vivid and real again, the fact that this shall really happen, and Ornstein tenses like he shall suddenly think of some new reason why this is actually, truly, all a trap.

 

Gwynsen must notice his anxiety, because he winds an arm around him and rubs his back. “Or use my given name there, too. No one would think it odd if thou didst so.”

 

“Thou art the _heir_ ,” Ornstein says suddenly, despairingly. “I am sorry but – it just does not make any _sense_ –“

 

“Listen, Ornstein,” Gwynsen says, steadily. “If I were my father's only child, I might be as suspicious as thou art. Let me tell thee what we discussed.”

 

Ornstein listens as, at last, Gwynsen outlines the terms of their marriage for him, assuring him firstly that he had not found the conditions objectionable.

 

“We cannot raise any child that is not connected to my father's bloodline,” Gwynsen says. Ornstein nods. _Where would we have gotten one, anyways?_ “Gwynevere's children shall inherit. Should any sort of misfortune befall my sister – though I pray against anything of the sort – we may take in and raise her children as our own. I assume the same is true of Gwyndolin, but I think father is still too protective to make any plans of marrying him off.”

 

_It is up to Gwynevere to produce heirs, then._ It is a big expectation to put squarely upon her shoulders. _Hopefully this aligns with her personal wishes, but would Lord Gwyn care if it did not?_ He shall have to trouble over this later.

 

“And what shall I be?”

 

“Thou wilt be formally a prince, or something like it.”

 

So it is true. “But shall I remain a knight, Gwynsen?”

 

Gwynsen smiles. “Does that trouble thee, then, Ornstein? Rest easy – thou shalt continue in being everything thou art today.”

 

That is a big relief, indeed. Truthfully he does not know any other way to live. Though he can certainly find room for this new world where he goes to sleep beside his beloved every night and does not trouble over whether he will be spotted in leaving.

 

“I shall tell thee the rest as I think of it,” Gwynsen says. “But let me share my ideas for tomorrow. Thou art free to strike down any part of it, or change it to better suit thy liking. ”

 

Ornstein listens.

 

* * *

 

The prince had been right – it is a perfect day to walk.

 

At Gwynsen's insistence, Ornstein does not wear his gilt plate armor – there shall be no danger to either of them, the prince says, and it will be easier going without the additional heft. Nonetheless, he does not object when Ornstein opts to wear a more lightweight leather set he keeps for journeys, and carries his spear, too.

 

They set out just after dawn, and make steady progress over the foothills beneath the shadow of Anor Londo. After so long couped up indoors – making plans, keeping the peace, only venturing outside to train with his dragonslayers – the fresh exercise is a welcome breath drawn into his lungs. They do not talk much as they go, and only stop once to rest beside a great stone boulder, taking a light lunch while admiring the scenery.

 

The sun is high in the sky when they approach their destination – an unextraordinary mesa of rock towering over a gorge far below. Gwynsen sits, and not knowing what else to do, Ornstein sits beside him.

 

“How long?” he ventures, after a moment.

 

“I don't know,” the prince answers, “but soon.”

 

Their first sign comes when the sky appears to darken overhead. Clouds once friendly loom heavy with ill omens. And then the rain starts, and the wind.

 

Ornstein squints through the weather, scanning the skies, fighting down the first twinges of anxiety he feels. Like so many other things from Gwynsen, this tale had seemed impossible. And yet.

 

The beating of wings takes him by surprise. Out of the clouds drops a beast straight from the confines of his imagination, when he had heard the prince's description: it is a wyvern, no doubt, but its body is tufted with feathers black as night, like a raven's.

 

_It would be too cruel, now, if we came so far only to be attacked by a dragonkin that Gwynsen calls friend._ But still he trusts him utterly.

 

The wyvern spirals down through the air towards them, until it is impossibly close, and Ornstein must shift something within his mind so that he does not grasp his spear and look for an opening. The King of the Storm – named so by the prince – lands before the two smaller figures, and considers them.

 

Ornstein has scarcely in his life been so close to a dragonkin before, not without the intent of striking a killing blow. He looks to Gwynsen, who rises to his feet, before following suit. He does not wish to do anything to cause offense, or make the beast feel unduly threatened.

 

Gwynsen approaches the great wyvern slowly, but with no trace of fear, and when he is close enough he reaches out a hand and runs it along the beast's brow ridge. “Hello again, my friend,” he greets.

 

_Is there space here for the likes of me_ , Ornstein wonders – for he is a dragonslayer, after all, and that is the extent of his significance; he is not a natural born prince, or anything else. He stays rooted to the spot, until Gwynsen looks over his shoulder at him, and he knows he must approach.

 

His steps are tentative. He cannot see the great beast's eyes, from the front, but still he keeps his gaze locked on the front of its head. A ways before where Gwynsen stands, he stops, and bows as deep as he dares.

 

“I am Ornstein,” he begins, “called dragonslayer by some, but I do not mean any harm to you.” He raises his head, cautiously slow. “Gwynsen has told me much of your time together. If it is true that good may come of our speaking with thy kind, then I am unreservedly happy for it.”

 

The wyvern cocks back its head a bit, and makes an indecipherable cry. Ornstein tenses, against his will, and looks to Gwynsen, eager to know how to react.

 

“I think thou art boring him, Ornstein,” the prince teases. “Come. We shall hunt together to break the awkwardness.”

 

It takes a moment – exactly until Gwynsen rests one hand against the beast's neck, to be exact – for Ornstein to catch his meaning. He is willing to suffer much for his prince, but this? “Thou cannot mean-” he begins, but Gwynsen has already hopped onto the drake's back, and extends one arm as casually as if he means to sling him up onto a horse beside him. “I do not think I am ready for that,” he manages after an expectant pause, after realizing that neither his feet nor his stomach have any intention of cooperating.

 

The prince merely shrugs. “Suit thyself,” he calls. “Observe how it is, first, and then I promise thou shalt find the idea easier to swallow.”

 

* * *

 

In the end, he does not really want to watch Gwynsen take off on a wyvern, either, but watch helplessly he must.

 

At first, when the drake jumps off of the mesa into the gorge below – abruptly out of Ornstein's sight – he is fleetingly sure he shall never see either of them again. Then they soar into view once more, the beast's wings pumping loudly against the wet, heavy air, and Ornstein could not tear his gaze away for all the world.

 

Entertainers and humorists wove tales of dragonriders, to be sure, but they were only tales: idle stories for idle minds. Never had Ornstein thought he would live to see someone riding a dragonkin. At least, not without being cast immediately to their own doom. Gwynsen rides on the back of the King of the Storm as easily as if he had been born to do it, as naturally as if he had spent his childhood practicing this, rather than only riding horses and practicing with a sword and spear. Like so many other things, he makes it look effortless; the unconscious ability of a God.

 

They land again not long after, and a disused part of Ornstein's brain has time to note with amusement that the fast-paced ride has not done much to muss up Gwynsen's hair in its natural state.

 

Ornstein does not ride the wyvern. Fundamentally, he knows he cannot. Nothing will coax him onto the beast's back today, though he leaves the possibility open for the upcoming years, if he is allowed to be eased into it. For now, it is enough to know that Gwynsen's unlikely friend tolerates him.

 

After a few hours, the wyvern bows its head, makes another unknown bellowing sound, and plunges out again into the world, and as suddenly as it had left, the skies are clear again, and the sun sends its welcome touch down into the air leaden with moisture. Ornstein strips off his leather armor and lays it to dry a while in the sun; it will make the trek back more comfortable.

 

“Here, Ornstein,” Gwynsen calls, as they wander a little bit around the rock. “Canst thou hear it?”

 

“Hear what, my prince?” Ornstein asks, after a period of listening, and hearing nothing. “Gwynsen,” he corrects a moment later.

 

“Perhaps thou cannot hear it,” the prince muses. “Sometimes I think I can hear them – the dragons. Though of course, they are nowhere near.”

 

They take rest for a while, finding a flat expanse of smooth stone to stretch out over before they commit to making the journey home. It is good to have some time to sort through his own thoughts, Ornstein thinks. There has been precious little time to do so, though so many new and curious things change the way the world looks around him.

 

“Imagine,” Gwynsen murmurs suddenly, “if we did not ever have to return to the castle.”

 

The sentiment surprises Ornstein. It seems to him as though affairs in his father's keep proceed better than usual. “Is that thy wish, to stay out here?” he inquires, musingly. “I hope thou wilt not forget our wedding.” He says it as a joke, and expects banter in response, but Gwynsen's tone does not change.

 

“We do not truly need a pontiff and witnesses to speak promises to each other.” The prince sounds truly contemplative, now, his head pillowed on his hands tucked beneath. “We could live beneath the stars and do what we like with no obligations to any person but each other.”

 

“What a romantic notion.” Ornstein sidles up beside him, now, resting on one elbow as he studies the prince's face. “And how soon wouldst thou grow bored with no wars to fight?”

 

“There will always be wars,” Gwynsen replies with a sly smile, “but they would not be my father's.”

 

They listen to the wind outside for a moment, and soak up the welcome rays of sun. “Indeed, having a pontiff and a cathedral and thy family as witness does not change what is in our hearts,” Ornstein acknowledges, “but thou hast fought hard for those things, regardless. They have significance. And to speak the truth, there are many who I care about who are right now within the castle. I could not live fancifully if I felt I had abandoned them.”

 

There is a long silence. “I could not expect thee to give any other answer,” Gwynsen says, cryptically.

 

Ornstein wonders what that means as Gwynsen pulls himself into a sitting position, and kisses him before rising to his feet. “Come, put thy armor back on. If we make good time, we shall arrive back before nightfall.”

 

* * *

 

The scant three weeks before the wedding are short indeed, and yet they feel like an eternity in and of themselves. He has asked Gwynsen a little of what to expect from the ceremony, and the prince gives him a few details from the weddings of the gods he has attended, but it is clear that such rituals had never interested him until now.

 

In truth, Ornstein knows more of the traditions of the mortals down in the valley – for their curious customs are a source of constant entertainment for the city of Gods. A bustling tavern, for instance, could be said to be as crowded as an Astoran wedding. Mortals also wed early, and often, and so weddings were everyday affairs for them.

 

What little he knows of the customs of the Gods is this: first, in the morning's light, shall come a private gathering: the swearing ceremony, between only the two of them and Gwynsen's family, and the Pontiff, of course. That can be said to be the true wedding, for his understanding is that they shall be considered properly joined after it is done. Gwynsen has never attended one of these in person: what he recounts is the _feasting_. Ornstein has now heard much about the food served at these receptions, held afterwards, which he knew could last until dusk. The prince had warned him that there were likely to be many unsavory characters in attendance – perhaps the paledrake Seath, for instance – and that they could not personally cull the guest list.

 

Ornstein does not exactly relish the idea of spending nearly an entire day in the same room as Seath, but it is not as though he will have to pay much attention. He doubts he will be called upon to do much entertaining.

 

It is only two days before the ceremony and Ornstein is taking dinner with his dragonslayers. They at least have been stringent in taking care not to treat him any differently, which he is grateful for – a simple few words to them on the day after the announcement had been enough to ensure that.

 

He can tell they are buzzing with excitement at their important mission, which lies some months or so ahead. It does not seem to matter that the ideal goal is _not_ to slay any dragons: to simply be in proximity of the enemies they have trained to kill seems to make their blood hot.

 

When they have spent a while in drinking and gorging and speaking of inconsequential things, Ornstein is preparing to turn in when he notices a drunken Ladh looking directly at him, and knows mischief is afoot.

 

“Come on, captain, give us at least an idea,” the man crows, and Ornstein hears several of the other soldiers audibly groan around him.

 

He realizes now he's been mentally absent for the conversation that preceded this, whatever it was. “Well, of course I'd rather hear about the _Princess_ ,” Ladh cries defensively, to further groans, “but do _you_ know of anyone else who's fucked a God?”

 

“Alright, that's enough,” someone (Dunn) says on the other side of the drunken greatarcher. “Please forgive him, captain,” says Engold across from Ornstein, and he notices the man's shoulders are rigid with indignity. “We should have been watching his intake.”

 

_How funny it is to see him like this,_ Ornstein thinks. It is true that Engold's natural fighting style had put him in mind of himself, once, but he thought that was where their similarities ended. _Truth be told, though, he reminds me somewhat of myself right now._ “No harm done,” he says, enjoying the look that sweeps across their faces. “I imagine it is only natural to be curious.” And they _are_ curious, he sees now, every last one of them, although perhaps they would quickly change their minds if he indulged them. He knows from sitting around this table that the grand majority of them prefer to chatter of women.

 

“Is it _big_?” Ladh blurts, earning himself another smack on the back of the head by Dunn beside him, but rather than groan all of the men look to their captain, now, as if he has opened up the possibility to his giving them a proper answer.

 

Ornstein shrugs, raising up his cup to take a sip. “It is nothing I cannot handle,” he says to loud whoops which fill the small hall.

 

* * *

 

It has not escaped Ornstein's notice that the other knights in the ranks of the dragonslayers have established their own kind of power structure, despite the fact that, aside from their captain and their prince, they are all technically equals. Furthermore, it is surprising to see that Engold has apparently risen to the top of it.

 

At first Ornstein is worried; he wonders if it possible that the knights think there is a hint of favoritism from his part, and afford Engold the extra courtesy because of it. Of course it is not true: despite reminding him of himself in some ways, he had been entirely ready to give up on him after that first bout with the illusory dragon. Or maybe, simpler still, it is _because_ Engold resembles Ornstein that they respect him.

 

But then Ornstein watches closer. True, the man had displayed cowardice early, but for months now he has been coaching the others closely on things like footwork and balance, and he is a patient teacher. _The best kind_ , Ornstein realizes. And that is why they respect him: _because he cares for them._

 

Ornstein pulls him aside the next morning. Gwynsen had entreated him to give away that ring he had received in the cathedral what seemed like so long ago, in that ceremony the prince had described as a farce. With the wedding tomorrow, it is now that he shall do so.

 

“Who wouldst thou say is most skilled with offensive miracles, from among thy fellows?” he asks.

 

Engold considers carefully for a few moments. “Well, excepting thyself and the prince, I would say Ryvel or Nells,” he responds, echoing Ornstein's own thoughts.

 

Ornstein holds out the ring, and Engold accepts it curiously as it is deposited into his palm. “Tis a gift from the prince of sunlight,” Ornstein explains, seeing when Engold recognizes it. “I cannot give it away myself, it is too much like choosing a favorite. May I leave thee with the task of deciding who shall wear it? I believe the ruling shall be fairer, when it comes from their comrade with whom they have trained as equals.”

 

“Of course, captain.”

 

With that task thankfully delegated, Ornstein is free to focus on the rest of the afternoon, and attempt to keep his mind away from the enormity of what will happen tomorrow, until he receives a summons from Gwynevere.

 

* * *

 

Being called directly to the Princess of Sunlight's room is certainly an unusual thing, but then, tomorrow shall not be a usual day. Ornstein steps into Gwynevere's chambers, trying to display more confidence than he feels.

 

The princess receives him with her usual amount of graciousness. “Sit,” she invites him, and he takes the seat that is offered, opposite her.

 

It is strange to see her in these rooms alone, and not attended by her maidens. “Art thou nervous?” she asks, after they exchange some small talk about the knights and training and all manner of other distractions.

 

“As much as can be expected, I think,” he settles for saying. “It is not like the night before a campaign, and yet... like a battle, I know only what the plans look like on paper, and not how to imagine what shall really happen.”

 

“Is that what thy basis for comparison is? I hope it shall end with fewer men dead, then.”

 

Ornstein chuckles, softly. His gaze drifts up to the ceiling of the room, vaulted and impossibly high. It seems so utterly unreachable, like so many places in Anor Londo. He still feels as small and as insignificant as he ever did within these walls.

 

“I spend so much time convinced I have mistaken dreams for reality,” he confesses. “How can it be possible? Weeks have passed, yet I find myself asking the same question.”

 

“Who can blame thee? Thou knowest my father as well as anyone,” Gwynevere says, softly. “But thou also knowest he spends much time being predictable, so that he may be surprising later.”

 

Lord Gwyn can be surprising indeed, but this pushes the limits of even Ornstein's understanding. But Gwynevere and Gwynsen seem to believe him in earnest, and they are his children who have known him for many more years than he.

 

“I hear thou shalt be at the swearing ceremony tomorrow,” he presses, lightly. “Hast thou been to one before?” He does not think it very likely, since his impression is that it is for family only, and Gwynevere's elder brother has not been to one himself.

 

But Gwynevere surprises him. “I have been to a few,” says she, “as a representative for my family. It shall be easy for thee, do not worry. There is nothing unexpected.”

 

Ornstein nods, instead of replying that all is technically unexpected when he does not know what to expect.

 

“There is so much I do not know,” he sighs. “My realm was in warcraft... I suppose I did not think such traditions would ever touch me.”

 

Gwynevere looks contemplative for a moment. “Dost thou know the custom we call 'the moonlight vigil'?” she asks.

 

Ornstein thinks it over for a moment. The term sounds vaguely familiar, perhaps something he has heard in passing, but he is sure he does not know what it is. He shakes his head a little in a _no_.

 

“It is not relevant to thee at all, of course, for it is one practiced by noble ladies on the eve of their wedding,” Gwynevere explains. “A soon-to-be bride surrounds herself with her maiden companions and trusted female servants, and they watch over each other in sleep.”

 

“And what is the... pretext, for such a custom?” he asks, interested.

 

“Well, according to folk wisdom, it keepeth at bay dark spirits and perhaps, overzealous soon-to-be husbands,” Gwynevere says with a twinkle in her eye. Then a shadow of a memory seems to pass in front of her. “And for one that I knew, twas bittersweet indeed, for it was the last night she spent with her love.”

 

The goddess's words take a moment to click into pace. “That is tragic,” Ornstein says honestly.

 

“Yea, it was.”

 

He takes a moment to be glad to be avoiding such a fate, though for so long it was the only one he had prepared for. “There appear to be a number of customs that will be foregone by necessity,” Ornstein observes, “for as thou sayest, obviously, I do not think a bed full of maidens would be appropriate here.”

 

Gwynevere considers. “Would thy fellow knights be willing?” A hint of mischief is back in her features.

 

Ornstein grimaces. An unwelcome vision flashes of Gough, Artorias, and Ciaran sprawled uncomfortably over his bed while he attempts to sleep. In his mind's eye, they are all in full armor. “...Perhaps Sif only.”

 

Gwynevere does a brief clap of her hands, excitedly. Mention of Artorias's wolf pup never fails to elicit a response. “Oh, how delightful that would be!” she laughs. “Worry not, my soon-to-be brother. We will find thee some suitable substitute for thy moonlight vigil.”

 

“Really, tis not necessary-”

 

“Do not worry,” she assures him as she leaves the room. “It shall not involve midnight visitors to thy bed.”

 

* * *

 

Night falls swiftly on Anor Londo. Or so it seems, for when Ornstein chances a look out the window, once and then again, the sky has turned from a fading pink to a deep blue. The moon is out, tonight; the waxing crescent symbolizes a fortuitous start to new endeavors, or so he has heard.

 

Somehow it happens that he dines with Gwynsen, Ciaran, Gough, Artorias, and a few of the dragonslayers who happen upon their party and are gathered into their number by the prince. Ornstein had not known if some other unknown custom would dictate this evening's repast, but it seems it shall be just the few of them, trading stories and conversation as if it is just some ordinary evening. He prefers it this way; the familiar company makes the hours pass by until it is time to part for sleep. Even Gwynsen does not stop him, or make an occasion of it, simply tells him they shall see each other in the morning.

 

The castle seems very awake, tonight, Ornstein thinks to himself as he walks down the hall to his quarters. He observes the silver knights roaming the keep, looking oddly purposeful. Still, it is not his business. He may be their captain, but it is their lieutenants' job to deal with their daily comings and goings, not his, and if Lowan does not think it is worth his knowing, then he is sure it is not.

 

Before he knows what has happened, he realizes his feet have taken him not to the unusual new room he has been acclimating to over the past three weeks – _that I shall thankfully be moved out of by tomorrow evening_ , he thinks, as neutrally as possible – but to his old quarters in the knights' wing of the castle, so close to the rooms of his fellows. He stares into the grain of the familiar wooden door, so near to his touch. It feels as though if he went inside, all of this business would be forgotten: the marriage, the parley with the dragons, all of it. All would be as it was not so long ago; he and Gwynsen would be navigating secret trysts in the castle and Ornstein would be listening still to all of those idle promises, spoken from the lips of a prince who had gotten much of what he wanted throughout his entire life.

 

He is stepping away from the door when he hears Artorias hail him. “Didst thou forget something, Ornstein?” his friend teases him.

 

“Caught up in my thoughts, I suppose,” Ornstein says instead of making an excuse. He has already bared so much of himself recently; Artorias can forgive him a bit of foolishness. “It is a hard habit to shake, when one takes one well-worn route for many years.”

 

The wolf knight taps him on the shoulder conspiratorially. “Truth be told,” he begins, “I was going to grab something myself – and Ciaran is heading to thy rooms to retrieve thee, but now the task falls to me.”

 

Ornstein looks at him, uncomprehending. “Thou needest me for something?” he repeats. Ordinarily he would go without question, assuming it important, but given the circumstances...

 

“Indeed. And thou wilt want thy armor, too. I suppose thou hadst better go above after all and fetch it.”

 

_My armor?_ Such a request – coming from a grinning friend so late at night – would sound suspiciously like the set-up for a foolish jest, if Ornstein hadn't been beginning to wonder if this was somehow expressly connected to some unknown custom. Gwynevere's words return to him, unbidden. _We will find thee some suitable substitute for thy moonlight vigil._

 

Ornstein parts from Artorias, and finds Ciaran standing outside his new rooms. She leans against the wall impatiently, until she sees him approach. “Taken the long route, hast thee?”

 

She helps him with his armor – for efficiency's sake – and they are soon out the door and heading back down below. “Did she say what this was about?” he asks, forgetting to mention Gwynevere by name.

 

“It is thy moonlight vigil,” Ciaran intones. “Tell me not that thou'st forgotten.”

 

* * *

 

When the four knights of Gwyn step out onto the grand balcony, the whole of Lordran is painted out before them in deep tones of lunar blue. Below, shimmering silver in the night, are the knights of Anor Londo.

 

It looks to be their entire company. They appear as a sparkling sea; a small fire before them causes light to dance over their finely wrought armor. They stand at attention for their captain, silent and still.

 

After a time, their ranks break away; two by two they depart, marching down the great steps into the darkness, and the effect is like the rippling of waves.

 

It is a beautiful and somehow, solemn sight. Ornstein cannot take his eyes away from it.

 

“We may go with them at the end, if thou likest,” Artorias says. “It is a fine night, isn't it?”

 

It is indeed. There is something like a conjuration of magic in the air. An unknown impulse causes Ornstein to look above, and he thinks he sees Gwyndolin in a tower window, also watching the proceedings. His state of mind is indecipherable from here, but in the silver light he appears truly in his element, part of the scenery utterly.

 

“Dost thou know the message they send?” Artorias asks, drawing his attention back to what happens below.

 

“Message?” Perhaps he means what the knights convey in this march. He has to admit he is not sure, though it is a fascinating sight.

 

“It is a sign of their allegiance to thee,” Ciaran says, cutting off Artorias from further explanation. “Thou shalt be their captain, always.”

 

“Moreso than that,” Artorias says. “Truthfully, I think thou wert already a god to them.”

 

“How can that be?” Ornstein asks, shaking his head slowly. “Though it was centuries ago, they know I once grew up among them, as one of their own. There are plenty of stories that circulate of how reckless and foolhardy I was in youth-”

 

“So remains their firstborn prince.” Ciaran points out. “Yet they view you both with the same reverence. Always you were a pair.”

 

“I cannot be a prince,” Ornstein murmurs, suddenly sure of it. “Or pretend at being a god.”

 

“If thou pretendest at godhood, I shall slay thee myself,” Ciaran remarks dryly. “But a fine princeling thou shalt perhaps make. Thou inspirest their devotion, indeed.”

 

When the last of the silver knights has begun their journey into the town below, Gough speaks up from behind them. “Shall we go forth, captain?”

 

Ornstein turns to his fellows behind him, and looks again up at the sky, endless and clear, fading away to black like the depths of the ocean. “Yes,” he decides, “let's go.”

 

The route takes them through the streets, into the glow of many candles lit in the windows that they pass, and all throughout the castle town, and they do not return until night is considered early morning, and when Ornstein falls into that too-plush bed he does not lie awake, but drifts straight off.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! How nice it is that nothing has exploded yet!


	9. Sworn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When there's cause for ceremony, Lord Gwyn delivers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! Sorry this chapter took me a bit longer than usual to write. It was more difficult than the other ones for various reasons. More notes at the end!
> 
> Thank you very much for the comments! I hope you enjoy!

 

* * *

 

 

When the doors to his rooms open, Ornstein flinches awake in bed.

 

His first instinct is alarm; he hadn't heard a knock, and the sun is not risen, and counting the number of footfalls, at least three figures are already in his room. By the time he is to his feet, he realizes that after all, they are only servants.

 

And though the sun may yet hide, he senses it will soon be dawn.

 

“Sir Ornstein,” one of them says in greeting, as if they have not just caught him unawares. He wonders if they did indeed knock, and the lately surreal nature of time has dulled his senses, on top of the late vigil he has had out in the moonlight. “Come.”

 

It is with some small displeasure that he observes that they lead him into the small bathing chambers attached to this room. He does not like to be fussed over; still, he is a man, and not modest, and it seems ill-judged to disobey the traditional custom at such an early point on this mystical, terrifying day. When the bath is drawn, he strips out of his nightclothes and steps into it. It is not a pool lowered into the ground, like most of the baths he has seen in the castle. Instead it is a tub, on clawed feet raised from the stone beneath.

 

The servants do not give him a moment to relax in the hot water, for they immediately get to work. While one lathers his hair, the other two scrub away at his exposed skin. Ornstein is nearly as efficient when he bathes himself, but it remains strange to feel the hands of strangers doing their work on him – and they are thorough. In an embarrassing lapse, it is all he can do not to reflexively kick a servant in the face when they begin scrubbing at the soles of his feet, so unused he is to being handled there. _Until now I think there were parts of my body I had forgotten about._ Still, he manages to exercise restraint, and suffers through their attentions.

 

His suspicions are surely true, that he is being treated like a bride. _For who else would marry a prince, I suppose,_ he thinks with sardonic amusement. No doubt this treatment is supposed to leave him as smooth as a polished stone, but Ornstein is a knight and a soldier, and there are calluses and scars, and a few stripes of burned skin besides, that will never leave him.

 

Nonetheless, when he emerges from the bath – to be immediately enveloped in warm towels and ushered into the bedroom to sit before the trifold mirror – his skin feels extra sensitive, as if the outer layers have been burned away. Now the three sets of hands all focus on his long red hair, brushing it first until it hangs remarkably even around his face. It is an echo of what was undergone with Gwynevere. He wonders with grim fascination if they shall style it – as he has heard from accounts of foreign weddings – but it becomes apparent that they mean to sweep it back into its ordinary style, and he sees them go for the decorative golden cuff that Gwynevere had gifted him.

 

His mind wanders in restlessness, and he hardly notices as he is dressed, and subjected to various other routines meant to improve his appearance. What shall happen when they go below? For now it seems more and more likely that they _shall_ go below, that the ceremony will really occur – for the way the servants pull, tug, and tie at fastenings around him suggest meticulous care and purpose. For centuries time has progressed at its unchanging pace, and in his prolonged lifespan he has seen many changes touch the world, yet it is the series of doors laid out before him that bring him pause, that burden him with disbelief.

 

Then he catches a glimpse of the mirror again, and his thoughts abruptly re-focus as he finds himself squarely back in this room.

 

The figure reflected back at him recognizes himself in the eyes, but as for the rest, he cannot fathom what he beholds. Ornstein does not consider himself prideful or vain, but from their jokes he has always gotten the impression that the other knights regard him so, and in that moment he believes them right all along, for he is stunned by his own beauty. _That is not a soldier_ , he thinks, breathless: somehow, he has been transformed into one of the gods.

 

He considers it further, after a few more moments of looking. No, he does not look a soldier, but – he considers – there _is_ something there. He feared of being treated like a bride, but instead, despite being stripped from his armor and wearing only layers of silks and golden bracers and cuffs and fastenings, adding to the impossible facts of his existence: he looks like a _knight_. He even spies what looks like the embroidered form of a lion's face.

 

The care of it all surprises him, and moreso than that, his reaction to it. He feels a shudder going through him, an involuntary reflex on realizing how closely he has been observed, thinking of all the scrutinizing eyes, hands, and minds that have gone into the preparation for this event. So many reminders lately have come to serve him back the truth: that whatever is between himself and Gwynsen no longer belongs to the two of them alone.

 

The barest flickers of light are visible on the horizon.

 

A rapping sounds at the door, and in steps two robed men Ornstein doesn't recognize. The pontiff's men, maybe.

 

“It is time,” they beckon, and Ornstein goes with them, after realizing in the illumination afforded through the candles they carry, that the servants had been from among Gwynevere's own maidens.

 

* * *

 

Nearly every morning does Ornstein wake before sunlight, and go about the routine that is drilled into his heart by the dual forces of duty and repetition. No longer does he pay attention to things like the echoing silence of the castle in those early hours, or the long spots of shadow that stretch around the endless hallways before the sun comes to chase them away. Yet these small details are things he notices intimately this morning as he accompanies his solemn escorts through the keep.

 

They pass through the halls of Gwyn's cathedral, into a sanctum beyond. The room is tall, its arched windows yawning wide into the vaulted ceilings. It is still dark, only the beginnings of dawn's influence creeping in, but at the end of this room he can see the forms of what can only be the royal family, and the Pontiff, illuminated by a burning brazier.

 

Like the rest of the castle, the hush in this room feels corporeal, as if it is all he can do to draw breath, and if he tried to speak, it would be swallowed up into the shadowed corners. The walk feels like it takes an eternity, but finally he stands before them.

 

There is just enough light from the brazier, and filtering in from the windows on either side of them, now, that he can dimly see the faces of them as they turn to regard him: Gwyndolin, Gwynevere, Lord Gwyn himself, and there, nearest the pontiff, Gwynsen.

 

There is almost too much to take in all at once, so it is all he can do to return their gazes, but when he sees the prince he is stopped in his tracks. For every occasion, and for none at all, too, is the royal family magnificent to behold, but nothing could have prepared him for this.

 

Gwynsen is swathed in a continuous piece of fabric, draping from one shoulder; the material is as shimmering and ephemeral as the rays of the sun, white fading to gold, offset with the subtlety of a single golden chain around his neck, and in this moment Ornstein now knows for certain this is no folly. Lord Gwyn means to give his son away in earnest.

 

Feeling as though he walks in a waking dream, he moves to stand beside him, sensing somehow it is what he is meant to do. The glow of the fire from the brazier warms their backs, almost too hot, but he is grateful for the sensation to focus on. The pontiff steps forward and makes a gesture, and as one, Ornstein and the prince kneel side-by-side before him, both knees to the stone. So far, these cues are easy to follow for one used to taking orders both stated and unstated, but still he feels as though they step together into the unknown. _Perhaps that is apt._

 

He is beginning to wonder what shall happen next when at last, breaking the interminable silence, the Pontiff speaks.

 

“Today under the eye of Lord Gwyn, we witness your union,” he speaks, in a rapt, yet practiced tone. “Your family shall accept or deny the truth of this match.”

 

Ornstein does not have time to wildly guess at what this means before he hears the familiar quiet rustling that signals Gwyndolin's approach. The Dark Sun stands before Ornstein, and carefully lifts a hand in his direction, towards his face. Kneeling as he is, there is only one way Ornstein knows to complete such a gesture, and so he prays he is right as he takes Gwyndolin's hand and raises the knuckles to his lips.

 

“As my brother, I accept thee,” Gwyndolin utters, all seriousness.

 

Gwynevere is next. She has a look of utter fondness on her face as she lowers herself, so her hand may extend far enough. “As my brother, I accept thee,” she echoes, saying the rote words, but her tone conveys far more than the phrase carries alone. Ornstein kisses her hand and hopes it conveys his feelings in kind: sincerity over automation.

 

When Lord Gwyn approaches, his heart hastens in his chest. For a moment he thinks maybe it shall all come down to this, that in this final hour the old lord will deny them that which he dangled so precariously, public engagement and the rest be damned. He anticipates whatever fateful, unknown words await his ears, but hears merely this:

 

“As my son, I welcome thee,” the old Lord declares, his voice as usual leaving no room for anything but certainty. “Thou wilt be my blood.”

 

The relief that fills him enables him to answer with ease. He remembers that he does, in fact, know the proper words to answer these particular ones, though he did know the context for them until now. “And to you, my family,” he responds, thankful that he does not falter in remembering, “I offer my love.”

 

That is it, then. The space where Gwynsen's mother would speak shall be left unfilled, and there is no one left of Ornstein's own family to perform the same duty for his sake.

 

It is not strange, in retrospect, that he does not hear her footsteps, but he perceives the final figure as she steps boldly into the light. Ornstein breath leaves him, and for a moment, he can do nothing but behold what follows.

 

Ciaran moves to stand in front of Gwynsen, and offers her hand to him. The prince takes it, bowing his head to her in reverence. “As my brother,” Ciaran murmurs, “I accept thee.”

 

It takes a moment for Ornstein to properly register what is happening in the corner of his eyes, and that is why the scene before him is suddenly hazy and clouded. The beginnings of the question that forms must surely have the same answer as all the others: as to why Lord Gwyn allows this, it must be because, somehow, Gwynsen has made it so. “And to you, my sister, I offer my love,” the prince tells her, and she steps back into the shadows.

 

Perhaps it is not wise for her to be declaring her allegiances so openly. Ciaran must have had the same thought. What might she have said, when Gwynsen approached her to ask if she would stand in for Ornstein's own family? It does not matter, for in the end, she made the decision to stand with them, in front of Lord Gwyn. If there will be consequences for it, he cannot think of them now. Surely there will be time, later.

 

Standing before them, the pontiff bids them to close their eyes, and Ornstein feels the grip of Gwynsen's hand before realizing it is part of the ceremony. And now the pontiff speaks some phrases about family and duty and honor, and though he tries to focus on the words as they pass, they wash over his mind like water. All he is cognizant of is the sensation of skin, and for a while, the crackling warmth of the fire.

 

After some time – he could not possibly say how much – they open their eyes again, and stand. The room is completely transformed; at some point, the brazier had been extinguished, and now it is only the natural sunlight, blazing and golden, that paints the room in warm bronze colors.

 

Lord Gwyn approaches them, now. In each hand he carries the two handles of a pewter cup filled with what smells like a sweet whiskey, and offers it to Ornstein. The purpose of this, at least, he knows from song and stories. He accepts it, taking the quaich into his own hands and taking a sip, before extending it out and offering it to Gwynsen, but the prince does not take it from his hands, but drinks from the cup as Ornstein holds it.

 

The pontiff says a few more words, and then suddenly, Ornstein is aware that the party of Lord Gwyn's family, tailed by Ciaran, is making to leave. He places the cup on the altar, and looks to Gwynsen confusedly, but the prince merely places a reassuring hand over his. _We are to stay_ , is what his eyes say. But Ornstein waits until they are alone in the vaulted chapel until he speaks aloud.

 

“The rings,” he begins, with a touch of confusion. It is the first time they have had an opening to speak to each other since the beginning of the ceremony.

 

In answer, Gwynsen produces the rings from inside a sash that is wound about his waist. “Here,” he breathes, holding them out so they catch the incoming rays of sun. “This part is meant for us only.”

 

“Is that the standard?” he cannot help asking.

 

“I know not. Does it matter?”

 

It does not. Gwynsen holds out his open palm, after first picking out one of the rings, and Ornstein takes the other one. It is warm from its time held so near the prince's body. Ornstein closes it in his palms, and concentrates. The air around him stills and vibrates from his focus. Gwynsen sees what he means to do, and tries to interrupt him. “Thou dost not need to-”

 

“Thou art supposed to wear it as a sign of my devotion,” Ornstein cuts him off in turn, as he performs the enchantment. He has practiced this in secret for the last three weeks; it is not his area, but his skill has increased with repetition. “So I make it mine, so thou shalt feel me in it.”

 

When it is complete, he holds the ring in hand, feeling it buzz slightly with the aftershock of the new life he has put into it. He is slightly weakened from the effort, but not as much as his first attempt. Gwynsen is watching him carefully, steadily, and Ornstein gives him a nod to signify that all is well.

 

This is the time for the vows, then. He thinks of Gwynsen's words out on the mesa: _We do not truly need a pontiff or witnesses to speak promises to each other._ Perhaps it was a hint at what was to come, at the fact that today they are the only ones to hear the words, even though they are in Gwyn's keep. “Thou saidst once that one day we would marry, and thou wouldst make all bear witness to it,” he muses, with a small smile. “And yet it is only the two of us here alone. When we emerge from here, who would truly know for sure whether we swore oaths to one another?”

 

“They shall know from seeing us,” Gwynsen says, all seriousness. “That is all I wanted from the world, to know our claims on one another. But there is no need to share these moments with them. Not with my father, not even my brother and sister, nor Ciaran.”

 

At mention of this, Ornstein's jaw sets. “I thank thee,” he says, “for bringing her in. So that there would be someone...”

 

Gwynsen seems to sense that the rest is becoming difficult to say, for he moves to relieve him. “She practically insisted,” he says. “Countless others would have done the same for thee; thy knights, for one, they adore thee. But then thy family would dwarf my own, and those memorized words would have dragged on a very long time. Besides, think of how my father would have liked it.”

 

Ornstein cannot help a smile at that. He looks down at the rings in both of their hands, feeling the expectation growing thick in the air around them. “Shalt thou start, or shall I?” he asks, quietly.

 

“Art thou offering?”

 

“When must we head to the hall, for the feast?”

 

“We shall have all the time we need, do not worry about that.”

 

Ornstein swallows, then looks up, capturing Gwynsen's gaze. Standing here another hour in each others' company while he pores through the words he wants to say in his head will not change the essence of them.

 

“Gwynsen,” he begins, carefully enunciating. “It is strange to think that once, thou wert only a vision spied on a balcony far away; a prince of Lordran. Before that moment, all I knew of thee was that thou wert a skilled warrior, but it was not until I saw thee standing there that I realized it was my loftiest dream to fight beside thee.”

 

He is used to the prince interjecting, with a joke or something clever designed to provoke him into banter, and out of custom, he almost expects it. But Gwynsen is watching him as carefully as he has ever watched anything, something like rapture in his eyes. Trying to hold his thoughts together, Ornstein continues.

 

“Of course I got my wish, and more. When thou calledst me a friend I thought that I had achieved the impossible, that nothing could be better. I felt that I had never been happier, ignoring the fact that by that point, I had already slayed a dragon and caught the attention of the first Lord, thy father.”

 

For the rest of it, his eyes lower. He looks at the hand that reaches across and clasps Gwynsen's own. With his other, he holds the ring between two fingertips. “Every step we takes together unlocks new happiness within me,” he manages, “and now that we will be married, I wonder if there are any more steps left to take, but it does not matter, for I cannot imagine being happier than I am now, by thy side, always – no matter what we shall do or where we shall go.”

 

He carefully fits the ring over Gwynsen's finger, and when he looks up, he notes the way Gwynsen keeps his gaze locked on the place where their skin touches. _Perhaps he knows what it feels like, now,_ Ornstein thinks, remembering how he felt that day in the cathedral when Gwynsen had gifted him that small token.

 

Now it is Gwynsen's turn. Ornstein eyes the ring that he holds; he can feel the strength of the magic coming off of it and wonders curiously what it could be. A simple ring devoid of enchantments of any sort would have been enough, but like himself, it seems Gwynsen had had other ideas.

 

He waits for him to begin, but it is a long moment, a pause that leaves them in a strange state of half a union. At last, the silence is broken.

 

“Faithful, kind, forbearing Ornstein,” Gwynsen speaks. “I have seen every side of thee, and I treasure them all, above anything else in this world. In the cathedral before, when I gave thee that ring: in front of all those witnesses I called thee my truest companion, and there was nothing false about it. But what I should have said is that my wish was to give thee my ring because it is with thee that my heart belongs.” Ornstein feels the initial strangeness of the small golden band, and all its unknown enchantments, as it goes over his finger. “With all of me and all that I have, I love thee. That is all.”

 

Gwynsen's hand cups his cheek, and leans forward, and Ornstein welcomes the kiss, as ordinary and extraordinary as any that has come before. By this point the sun paints a luminous halo around them, and the warm rays of the sun beckon against the places where skin is bared.

 

“So,” Ornstein begins, when they at last pull away, “Are we now married?”

 

“By now, I assume so,” Gwynsen replies, honestly, “Or I know we shall be considered such when we emerge. I do not know if it was the rings that did it, or the vows, or the cup, or whatever the Pontiff was going on about with family and duty and honor, but –“

 

Ornstein barks out a laugh, and kisses him one more time. “Come, then,” he beckons. “We must allow them to consider it official.”

 

* * *

 

When they emerge from the chapel into the outside world, Gwynevere and Ciaran are there to greet them, although Gwyndolin and his Lord father are nowhere in sight. “Congratulations, captain,” Ciaran cuts in. “And accept my modest appreciation for what the servants have done to thee. Thou art a sight indeed for sore eyes.”

 

Even in light of the morning Ornstein has just had, the comment flusters him a little, as does the way Gwynsen takes up his hand again. “It is poor manners, Ciaran, to get in an early strike before thy prince has had a chance,” Gwynsen admonishes, with a smile belaying his good mood.

 

“It seems that in any case I am too late, my prince,” Ciaran drawls, “For I hear he is just recently married, and quite happily at that. Also, I am apparently his sister now.”

 

Gwynevere leans forward, face aglow. “My father and brother have gone to assist in the preparations for the wedding party,” she says, “so the happy duty falls upon me to confer the congratulations on behalf of my family. Of course,” she beams to Ornstein, “thou art our family, now.”

 

He supposes at some point, these words will seem like they naturally belong to the fabric of this world. He is still wondering if he accepts the idea that perhaps a glorious thing can happen without repercussions or hidden deceptions. “I look forward to it,” he says, with honesty enough, for just now, he feels as though he can weather anything, and knows he will not have to brave it alone.

 

Gwynevere smiles. “Not as much as I suppose thou art looking forward to spending some time with thy new husband,” she says, and distinctly winks at her brother. Ciaran gives the princess a sly, appraising look.

 

“We shall leave you be, then,” she agrees after a moment. “I have promised a few friends of ours – a giant archer, as it happens, and a most frustratingly honorable knight – that I would bring them details to pore over. But do not forget to make an appearance at the feast soon, for the gossip will make them ravenous.”

 

Gwynsen leans over to give his sister a kiss on the cheek. Ornstein affectionately watches as the two women walk away, with Gwynevere, amusingly, appearing to tower over the slight form of Ciaran. Gwynsen tugs on their joined hands, and leads them in the opposite direction, so that they stroll alone on the path to the outlook below.

 

It is a beautiful morning, spilling over now into midday, but there is nothing very different to mark it from yesterday. How can it be, then, that they presently walk hand-in-hand in open view of all who might chance a look in this direction?

 

If this is the happy reality he has chanced to wake up in, he will have to accommodate it. “What is the enchantment on this ring?” Ornstein asks, curiously. At this, Gwynsen perks up.

 

“I shall tell thee about it later,” he returns, looking animated. “Tonight, perhaps. For now let it suffice to say that Gwynevere and Gwyndolin contributed their talents to help me in its construction.”

 

Ornstein is slightly taken aback, as he imagines the three siblings working together to who knows what end. The result of their combined skills and efforts could be anything. “And what of thine?” Gwynsen asks, holding the ring aloft to look at it. “I can feel traces of thee in it, which is enough.”

 

Ornstein stills slightly now, with a bit of reticence. “It is nothing,” he says, opting to downplay it. “It is not my natural area, but the enchanter I spoke with helped me figure out what my affinity was with it. Dost thou remember when we fought the dragon Haaluun, and for a moment thou wert almost swept bodily off the bridge?” Gwynsen looks questioningly at him. “With what I have put into it, I think it shall serve to make thee lighter on thy feet.”

 

Now Gwynsen nods appreciatively, his eyes alight in a smile. “Like thee,” he observes.

 

From this vantage point, they can see the movement of the crowds outside the castle. As he has been warned, Ornstein suspects the party will be quite a large affair. But then, this is the part that is not for them, but for the other important folk of Anor Londo.

 

His thoughts wander to other things, to tasks soon approaching, the parley. It is force of habit, to be constantly cycling through the topics that fight for dominance of his mind, but Gwynsen will reprimand him if he tries to bring these things up at a time like this, and he would be right for it. _We will only have one such day like this one, after all._ “Will thy friend the King of the Storm be joining us?” he asks, teasingly, to keep his mind occupied with the current topic.

 

Gwynsen's eyes twinkle looking back at him. “I did not think to invite him. I hope he does not think it impolite.”

 

“We will already be visited by a dragon. What is one more?”

 

Now that twinkle is gone, replaced by some faraway thought that plays upon the prince's face. “With the dragons... the peace my father negotiates would likely not last once the safety of the first flame is secured,” Gwynsen muses, quietly. “But when I am king...”

 

The implications of his words are clear, and Ornstein feels a chill shudder through him. If Lord Gwyn is not willing to keep the peace out of a desire to satisfy his own pride, then he may find himself facing a challenge from within his home.

 

“Gwynsen,” Ornstein says, his voice strained with the caution he feels, but he knows he does not have to say anything more.

 

“I know it is much to worry about, and much too early,” Gwynsen agrees, calm still on his face, “But we are together, and so I do not fear anything. Come, let us not talk of such things now.”

 

* * *

 

Upon entering the great hall, Ornstein had expected at once to be scanning the ranks of the guests: counting who is among them and where they are seated and what sort of interplay they should expect for the rest of the long afternoon. But it is the décor of the hall that steals away his attention; little is he even cognizant of the unnatural quiet that befalls the room as he and Gwynsen enter.

 

His gaze goes right to the heads of the two slain wyverns from what feels like so long ago, and yet perhaps, only yesterday; the two heads, red and gold scales gleaming, are positioned behind the dais where he supposes they are meant to sit.

 

It is not simply that this hall is prepared for a royal wedding: very particularly, it seems to be intended specifically for _them_.

 

And now he does realize the eyes on them, as they walk together towards the raised platform. In the past few weeks, Ornstein has gotten accustomed to this sort of stare, and he keeps his gaze locked straightly ahead. It is, somehow, a different manner of being watched than when he was simply an elite knight of Lord Gwyn, and he knows this as a man who has been accustomed to being observed for the grand majority of his long life. He does not chance a look at Gwynsen's face beside him, but he thinks he can feel the tiny shimmer of tension that goes through him at the sight of the dragonkins' heads before them. It must have a meaning yet more complicated than before, now.

 

There is a low table on the platform on the raised dais, meant for only the two of them, and they circle it and sit, so that they are looking out over the guests. Ornstein spots the rest of Lord Gwyn's family at a raised table to their right, still elevated and conspicuous but, for once, not the primary focus of the day's gathering.

 

As soon as he and Gwynsen find their places, Lord Gwyn rises from his seat, and raises his cup, and with all of the usual influence exercised by the old Lord he at once commands the room. “We come together today to celebrate the marriage of my firstborn son,” Gwyn thunders, to a general burst of raucous approval – the kind that precedes a great amount of feasting – from the crowd. “On this happy occasion, let us eat, drink, and celebrate what awaits us all in the age ahead.”

 

Succinct words, said to another riotous outburst from the cheery crowd, and Ornstein is thankful it is over. The hall is given over to the sounds of men clinking glasses with their equals and subordinates to signify the start of what is to come – that is to say, likely a great deal of drunkenness.

 

Though they are seated in the place of honor – and it is hard to avoid feeling like they are on display – the party guests, indeed, seem largely occupied with gorging and drinking and laughing themselves silly, even though the sun will have just reached its apex in the sky. Servants visit their table one by one, each bringing some new delicacy: a loin of veal, meat pies gilt with sugar plums and pomegranate seeds, roe deer and goat and sturgeon, fresh strawberries and cream. “The wyverns,” Ornstein says to Gwynsen, without elaborating, after he has made some inroads into the veal, noting the silence with which they have sat here for the last few minutes.

 

“Appropriate, is it not?” Gwynsen says, merely, with a gesture behind them towards where the heads sit poised in silent screams. He hasn't moved to eat yet, still seemingly lost in the observance of the crowd. “It is with them that this all began.”

 

“Is it?” Ornstein echoes, confused. “And by _this_ – our marriage?”

 

When he thinks of it, he supposes the sequence of events set into motion – the ones that have dictated the focus of their concern over the last few months – might in fact have started with the realization that the dragonkin were becoming bigger, more numerous, and more dangerous. _It was the start of our dragonslayers, of our petitioning with Lord Gwyn as to the need of studying them,_ he thinks. _Though it was that beast Haaluun who gave Gwynsen that knowledge of dragons, and thus, some of the leverage which allowed for this wedding to happen in the first place._ While he is still lost in thought, though, the prince – his husband, rather, he reminds himself with a jolt – speaks again.

 

“It was when I thought thou hadst died, Ornstein,” he utters, quietly. “Nothing has been the same since that day.” When Ornstein does not offer any response to this admission, he continues: “I still think of it, and often.”

 

Another passing servant comes by with more wine, dutifully unaware of the weight of the conversation that they drift through. “I do not,” Ornstein replies, truthfully, not hiding his surprise. “I had taken it for granted that one day I would fall in such a way. For after all, I am not sure I shall ever grow old in the way of ordinary men.” There is still scar tissue on his belly from the near-mortal wound – a reminder of the event that he shall carry forever – but the healers on hand had been some of Lordran's very best. To him it had, truthfully, been just another battle.

 

“It is the destiny of all great warriors,” Gwynsen agrees, still not quite looking him in the eye. “But if that should be our calling – to die in battle – I hope it shall be the both of us standing together, for I could not stand to be left behind again.”

 

Ornstein is fairly certain by this point that they must be having the most somber conversation amongst all of the hundreds of people gathered, though they sit here just freshly wedded. “As long as thou hast no plans to leave me, either,” Ornstein attempts, in a more teasing tone. Gwynsen smiles.

 

“It would be a poor promise indeed which I have just made to thee, if I did.”

 

It is not so much unlike other parties Ornstein can remember being at, and yet he has never viewed them from this vantage point, and he thinks perhaps he has never seen numbers quite like this, outside of armies at war. There are so many people gathered in Gwyn's expansive hall that entertainers must disperse to different sections to practice their trade, adding to the general mirth in the room. At one table, he can see that, indeed, Seath is here, flanked by his channelers, no less the eerie sight for their visible faces, so rarely exposed, as they down drink and make merry like regular people.

 

Ornstein focuses on forgetting their surroundings for a while, and instead levying all his attention on the fine foods which still pile high in front of them. The afternoon has advanced by the time he becomes aware of those who now approach them – and it is mostly because Gough's towering silhouette simply cannot be missed.

 

Gough, along with Artorias and Ciaran, stop just short of the dais and dutifully bow, kneeling. _Ah,_ Ornstein thinks, noting the adherence to ceremony, _this must be the part where we must endure the endless giftgiving and obeisances._ He has been warned of as much ahead of time. He wishes he could bid them to come up and join them at the table, instead.

 

“My princes,” Artorias says, speaking for the three of them. The address makes Ornstein flinch, but he does his best not to let it show. He knows he is only saying what is proper. “We offer our congratulations to you both, and to our captain as his fellow knights. We hope these gifts are enough to convey our fond wishes.”

 

Would that this could only happen in private, and they did not have to dance this dance! But Ornstein only nods and watches as his fellow knights – still the nearest thing he has to a family in this world, despite this ring that binds him to Lord Gwyn's blood – unfurl the bundles they carry on the floor before them.

 

The curious gifts are revealed: from Gough, an enameled box meant for holding curios and the like; from Ciaran, a shimmering blanket in deep hues of blue, red, and brown; and from Artorias, a small thing: a double-sided teapot with intricate latticed designs that Ornstein turns over in his hands with open fascination.

 

“It is a customary gift in other lands, or so I am told,” Artorias explains, breaking his formal character. “Such as for the royal weddings in Oolacile.”

 

All three are very fine things, although Ornstein is not accustomed to gifts – it will be up to the servants to determine how they shall be implemented in the rooms. But then, it is more for the gesture and spectacle than anything else. “Our thanks to you, noble knights,” Gwynsen says, his lofty tone seeming to openly acknowledge that they are all presently playing a part. “You have been fine friends and true comrades.”

 

Ornstein does not know how to add to that, so he nods, catching the eyes of his fellow knights and hoping it will be enough to carry what words cannot. They bow politely, and are gone.

 

They are visited next by some of Lord Gwyn's advisors, bringing with them more lavish (and purely decorative) gifts, and then by a cadre of nobles Ornstein barely recognizes, and then, like a breath of fresh air, by the dragonslayers. They are earnest, yet steadfastly proper as they pay their dues and deliver their congratulations. Ladh is obviously struggling not to betray his advanced drunkenness, and Engold looks so rigid and formal that he might just snap in half, such a departure from the fluid way he moves when training. It gladdens his heart to see them.

 

Next, however, is the contemptible Duke. The dragon's sickly pale skin is tinted a gruesome color in this warm light as he slithers up to the dais, and the pleasure on his face is unmatched by anyone standing near as he unloads a glittering pile of miscellanea upon the dais: golden candelabras, an astronomical model made from curious shimmering spheres, and finally, a single book from his library. It appears to be a fiction story, and Ornstein does not note anything particularly relevant about it: perhaps it was seized at random.

 

“Best wishes to you, my princes,” Seath hisses with something approaching giddiness, though his voice holds a sneer, “Perhaps it is me you have to thank for your present situation, no?”

 

“Thank you, Duke Seath,” Gwynsen returns stiffly, with a perfunctory bow of his head, and the paledrake gives a last hoarse chuckle and turns to depart. Ornstein cannot help giving Gwynsen a questioning look, and though it is not returned, Gwynsen replies in a quiet murmur intended for him alone:

 

“Thou must have wondered how my father knew of us.”

 

It was a question Ornstein had indeed pondered over, but Seath somehow puzzling it out made as much sense as anything else. The old dragon was crafty in that way.

 

And so it happens that Ornstein is already ready to be done with this endless procession, when the next visitor at the dais is Executioner Smough.

 

“Congratulations, captain,” comes that unsettling voice, as Smough bows low before them. “And to my prince, of course.”

 

Ornstein eyes the man suspiciously. Smough had first seemed dutiful enough, when Lord Gwyn had entrusted him with the execution of his enemies and prisoners, but over the many centuries Ornstein could not help the feeling that he was a man pretending. The rumors had long swirled about him and his many supposed _eccentricities_ – to put it in the most generous possible terms _–_ but Lord Gwyn would not hear of it, much as he would not hear the rumors of Seath's channelers and the missing maidens. Once a person was firmly Gwyn's creature, the old Lord did not deign to admit any initial ill judgment on his own part.

 

Smough rises now, and steps forward to offer out something that looks like a handkerchief, so near to his face that Ornstein simply must accept it or they shall both look foolish. Once it is in his hands, he inspects the fabric. It is obviously of high-minded design, ultra-fine silk with distinguishing flourishes at the corners.

 

“Captain, if I may,” Smough begins, all innocence. “I see thou hast been enjoying the lamb. Perhaps thou might make use of my present? I would be happy to know it is going to use.”

 

Ornstein flinches at the implication, and offhandedly wonders whether there is some messiness on his face that no one has told him about. It annoys him to play to Smough's whims, but he can hardly refuse such a request without making an event of it.

 

He raises the pristine folded edges of the handkerchief to his lips, and to his shock, the fabric comes away wet with blood. Smough gives an amused chuckle, with a raised edge of something Ornstein does not like.

 

He sees Gwynsen looking at him, the look on his face ominous like a faraway storm, and sets the handkerchief down as if he is entirely through thinking about it. “Our thanks to thee,” Ornstein says dispassionately, once it seems as though Gwynsen has forgotten to speak the words, and makes a gesture of dismissal. The bow Smough gives is surely too exaggerated to be sincere, but he leaves them in peace just the same.

 

The rest of their visitors are naturally unremarkable, save for Quelaag and Quelaan, each looking dazzling and elegant and perfectly sincere as they offer up their polite words, and then like the others they too are gone. It seems an eternity since the beginning of the procession that at last, the two of them are left in peace at their table, surrounded by a pile of offerings. The hour is advanced now, the sunlight fading away. And yet, servants are still hard at work all across the banquet hall refilling drink and spiriting away empty plates, and the merrymaking makes no sign of stopping.

 

Gwynevere approaches their little table, after a time. “I suppose thou dost not know, brother,” she says, “but as the wedded party you are not expected to stay for much longer.”

 

Gwynsen only nods, looking contemplative, and Ornstein thinks – despite all the tales of miracles she must have woven in her life – the princess has never spoken prettier words. “Your rooms must be fully furnished by now,” she continues. “And thou shalt never have to spend another night in that odd chamber, Ornstein!”

 

The thought cheers him indeed, but it is superseded now by the realization that they shall have to make some kind of exit, and he does not know what that entails. Somehow, he finds himself doubting that they will be allowed to leave the hall without some kind of ceremony. Truth be told, he has had quite enough of all of this, and eagerly looks forward to when their being married is merely another ordinary fact of life.

 

“I thank thee, sister,” Gwynsen says, looking as though he wants to move from this table just as much as Ornstein does. He looks over at him, questioningly, and Ornstein makes to stand with him. Whatever follows, it must be undergone sooner or later.

 

Gwynevere embraces her brother, and Ornstein can see some private words pass between them, something that makes Gwynsen smile, and the sight of it makes warmth bloom in his chest. Then Gwynevere turns to him and offers him the same hug. It is familial and heartfelt.

 

“Go, if you wish,” she bids.

 

If this were another party – another's wedding, perhaps – and the two of them were seated as just other faces in the crowd, Ornstein knows it would be easy to let the night draw long, to drink until they were insensible and trade jokes and stories among friends. But this is not that occasion, and he has never been so eager to make an escape.

 

* * *

 

As it happens, they were allowed to leave without incident. The denizens of the great hall gave one last cheer for them as they passed, but otherwise, upon leaving, they seemed to be free, save for the servants and the fully-sober ( _unfortunate bunch_ , Ornstein thinks) silver knights that had fallen into step effortlessly beside them. Still, this unexpected retinue is dismissed easily enough as they reach Gwynsen's rooms.

 

“Anything you need, just ring, my princes,” one of the servants says with a bow, and then they all disperse. Gwynsen opens the door.

 

It is the second time in recent months that Ornstein has witnessed his scant few possessions arranged into some new pattern – but this is different. That other room had been alien and unfamiliar, even with the presence of his own items. Meanwhile, Gwynsen's room is somehow totally transformed. Before, this room had only seemed to come alive with the prince in it, so gaping wide and empty otherwise, with only the painting of the deceased queen to suggest any personal attachments. But now the arrangement of the furniture cordons off the space into useful designations, and the placement of light makes it appear somehow, for lack of a better term, cozier.

 

He takes it in, fumbling for words.

 

“I think we will enjoy it much more this way,” Gwynsen acknowledges, sounding aloof in that way that betrays that he is actually very eager for someone's opinion. It makes Ornstein smile. “I have worked with the servants in scheming how to arrange it all. What are thy thoughts?”

 

“It is perfect,” Ornstein says honestly. It is not exactly austere, no, not in the manner he had been used to living in once, but something about the space comforts his heart. It is so preferred over the empty and echoing void that those interim chambers had seemed to him. Even the plain and humble little trestle table seems livened by its surroundings, and he sees that his familiar armor has laid out on it with care.

 

He sits on the bed to take it all in, and it takes him a moment to be surprised. Looking down at the mattress beneath him, he shifts his weight on it again, then looks up at Gwynsen, wondering all the while if he is imagining it.

 

“A gift for my new husband,” Gwynsen winks, catching the intent of the silent question. “I am not particular, myself.”

 

Ornstein is equal measures impressed and surprised, for he does not remember ever opening his mouth to complain about the overwhelming plushness of that other bed – except on one occasion to Ciaran, who of course, must have been all too happy to extend him another personal favor. They seem to be piling up, lately. “That was too kind,” he breathes.

 

Gwynsen approaches him then, stopping just before the bed, gazing down at him with an enthralled look, as if he cannot tear his eyes away. The intensity of his stare makes Ornstein feel at once exposed, all the more for how lightweight this outfit is compared to what he is used to. “It is a strange ceremony, is it not?” the prince muses, quietly. “Never did I observe before how much it exists for the benefit of others. Too busy I have always been, getting drunk and happy like the rest of the guests.”

 

Ornstein knows exactly what he means. He is increasingly more grateful for the small amount of privacy they had had in the cathedral sanctum this morning. It is a truly exhausting thing, bearing the scrutiny of everyone noble in Anor Londo. Being a decorated knight is easy and simple by comparison.

 

The moments tick by, and he has forgotten to answer. “Hast thou seen thyself, Ornstein?” Gwnysen asks, reverent, “for the compliment Ciaran paid thee earlier does not even touch it.”

 

The memory he has of beholding himself in the mirror this morning is still vivid in his mind, clarity afforded by the shock of it. “I could say the same of thee,” he responds, drinking in the sight of the shimmering gold fabric, and he reaches up for Gwynsen's hands so that he may pull him onto the bed with him.

 

He must try and remember that they are truly alone now, that no one is around to watch them as they kiss with Ornstein's back to the firm surface of the bed. It is strange to think, though, that for once they are playing right into what is expected of them. It puts an unusual mark on things.

 

Gwynsen leans over him as they catch a breath. “What art thou thinking of?” he asks, and Ornstein realizes his thoughts are conspiring to take him out of the moment, though the timing could not be worse.

 

He looks up at him, deciding on honesty when he realizes he is relaxed and comfortable, and that even deep within himself he feels no pressure to lie to Gwynsen. “To be truthful,” he admits, “I am thinking perhaps I should have done... a great deal less feasting.”

 

This makes Gwynsen laugh, so much so that he must lean his forehead against Ornstein's chest. It is a pleasant rumble that goes through him, adding to his contentedness. “I have heard from Gwynevere that many brides refuse food at the feast, any more than what will satisfy their meagerest appetite, no matter what savory dish gets placed in front of them,” the prince says.

 

“I am not a bride,” Ornstein protests, and then: “that sounds like torture.”

 

“True indeed,” Gwynsen agrees. “And what a waste it would have been.”

 

No one would ever want for fill or flavor when they ate at Lord Gwyn's table, that was for certain, and Ornstein had never been able to ignore such things when they were laid out so handsomely in front of him. “Well,” the prince begins, “under ordinary circumstances, I think there would be servants listening at our door, to make sure we were diligent in making heirs, but that seems unlikely to be the case.” He relaxes on one arm next to Ornstein, and then amends his previous statement. “And even were it true, I would say a curse upon it all! If it is thy wish to sleep and do no more, then that is what we shall do.”

 

The prince sounds so resolute, as if there would be no greater pleasure than the prospect of going to sleep straight away if Ornstein were to decide on it. It is just what he has come to expect from Gwynsen, and no less charming for it. Luckily... “That is not in the slightest what I intended,” he assures him, leaning over Gwynsen in a reversal of their earlier position, before moving to recapture his mouth.

 

He feels the stirrings of his body working their way through him slower than usual, for indeed though he had tried to moderate, the drink has done something to dull his senses. It is all pleasantness and sweetness and tingling familiarity, though, working together to draw an increasing haste out of him, until he is breathing heavily against Gwynsen's open mouth. Something has given him pause; it is the way the prince has wrapped his legs around his waist. The implication of the gesture is clear, but...

 

Ornstein looks at him, hazily, wondering if he understands. “Like this?” he confirms, hesitant, for they have never been this way together before.

 

“What is a proper wedding without the deflowering of a maiden?” Gwynsen's tone is jesting, but he can tell he is serious.

 

Ornstein considers, distantly. It is not that the subject has never come up between them, but always, for some reason or another, he has turned them away from the idea. _It was because he was a prince, and I was merely a knight,_ he realizes, though he had never been forced to piece through his own logic before.

 

“If thou dost not like the idea, then we shall not,” Gwynsen assures him. “But if the reason is because thou dost not feel that us truly equals, then we shall work through it.”

 

Ornstein looks up, startled by Gwynsen's astuteness on this. Until now, even he had not confronted this truth, and now he faces a reckoning on it all at once. “Indeed... thou wert a prince,” he explains, echoing his own thoughts, though he is sure once the words are out, they will sound uncouth. “At the time... it did not seem right to force the woman's role upon thee.”

 

“Do not call it 'the woman's role', Ornstein,” Gwynsen chastises with fondness. “Dost thou see any women here?” The point is well-taken – just another viewpoint he has never personally challenged before. “Besides,” the prince continues, “the drunken ramblings of our soldiers lead me to believe there are some very subversive things one can get up to with women, for those willing. But in that, I suppose, thou wouldst know better than I, as I have no experience there.”

 

At this, Ornstein's mind shifts, eyeing him curiously. “Never?” he asks, not quite believing. “Not even to see if thou likedst it?” He has never asked before, feeling that whatever was in Gwynsen's past was not his business to ask over. _Another preconception_ , he supposes, _if we are after all truly equals._

 

“It has been many centuries, Ornstein. Had I the inclination, I believe it would have revealed itself to me by now.”

 

After all of their time together, there is still more about Gwynsen he does not know, and the weight of it begins to make itself apparent to him. Early on had Gwynsen asked him about his own past, about his family and friends and lovers, and never had he thought it proper to return the favor. _Was he waiting for me to?_ he wonders.

 

Even if that is true – if he has neglected his lover in some way – it is a lucky thing they shall have time, so that he can rectify it.

 

With newfound fire, he kisses the column of Gwynsen's throat, pushing him back onto the bed. He is determined to explore all of those places he has not known before, but for now, this will suffice. The prince is larger than he is, and taller, and creativity must be employed, but after all, he is a dragonslayer, and the slaying of dragons requires creativity most of all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smough is in this one! He was fun to write :) You may see more of him later
> 
> A big part of what made this chapter hard to write was just coming up with customs and traditions and stuff, especially for the wedding... as well as yoinking existing stuff like the Scottish quaich (which I thought was perfect). Writing ceremonial nonsense has always been the most difficult part of this fic and this chapter was just a wall of it! Anyway congratulations nkstein. Was also happy to dissect more of the Gender Essentialist Lordran preconceptions that exist in this universe, it was very fun!
> 
> Haven't self-beta'ed so may make changes later! Hopefully no sentences just end abruptly haha 
> 
> Thank you for reading <3


	10. A New Age

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The marriage of the firstborn prince – and the upcoming meeting with the dragons – may signify change is on the horizon, but what shape it takes they cannot yet divine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not to be very broken recordy but thank you very much for continuing to read and comment. This story is a lot of fun to write and it means a lot to know that other people are enjoying it!
> 
> (obligatory disclaimer that the first scene is a tiny bit more explicit than usual, but you can skip it without impacting the story)

 

The morning is advanced when they awake, the room golden and glowing, and warm. Ornstein rolls over in bed to find Gwynsen's sleeping form, and that very action causes the prince to stir, his nose and brows wrinkling in the beginnings of wakefulness. Unable to help himself, Ornstein draws near, pressing a quiet kiss to his lips.

 

Golden irises are still hooded with sleep as Gwynsen opens one eye and then another, slowly focusing on Ornstein before him, The man he has married is beautiful, Ornstein thinks, and in this moment, that is the way he beholds him: not, first and foremost, as a God. “Good morning, my love,” the prince whispers, and then he is bringing Ornstein close again, encircling him within his arms beneath the sheets, and one quiet kiss becomes several lengthier ones, and idle hands wander gently over sleep-clammy skin.

 

“It is,” Ornstein replies at length, voice tired and fond as he offers a smile in return. “...my husband,” he attempts, and drapes one leg over Gwynsen's hip invitingly as he leans back in.

 

For the first time, he knows with certainty that the morning before them truly is theirs, and at last, with maddening and delicious slowness, the prince touches him where he wishes him to.

 

The memory of last night makes him hot, ignites his inner flame. Gwynsen beneath him, his powerful body quivering in response to his touch – it is an image that will occupy him for many nights. But there are also things attained only with practice. And together this way, with the prince between his legs, they have a wealth of experience to draw from.

 

With considered gentleness, easing through his relaxed muscles, Gwynsen prepares him, and soon they are joined together, their rhythm as familiar when they make love as when they make war, side-by-side. The morning draws on, as slowly they approach the brink over and over again, only to edge away at the last minute, to prolong this closeness, to linger in kisses and easy words until that fever of urgency has ebbed again, and he answers Gwynsen's movements with the natural sounds that they draw out of him.

 

They are experts in the language of this act. Gwynsen must feel the tremors that Ornstein's body produces deep within, the telltale signs that for all of their slowness and care, soon there shall be no more delaying the inevitable. The prince murmurs a fractured warning in his ear, and Ornstein answers him without words, gripping him close with whatever limbs he can spare as they abandon all else in the race to the peak.

 

Before long, the afterglow of that fevered climb fades away to the reality of the castle, grounded in the earth. The sun marks nearly noon outside. _Somehow_ _we have whiled away the entire morning in bed,_ Ornstein notes, as gradually his thoughts return and his breathing evens. Presently Gwynsen returns to bed with a damp towel, and helps him get clean.

 

“I have made a mess of thee,” Gwynsen observes, reverently. “Thou art raw and weeping, down here.” With one finger he traces the rim of that sensitive place.

 

Flushing heatedly, Ornstein goes to nudge him away with his thigh. He cannot bring himself to call it vulgar, though it is: for the prince does not seem to tease him, but rather, it is as though he feels compelled to speak the earnest truth of his mind.

 

Ornstein revels in it too. They have taken their time before, when the opportunity afforded itself, but the slow morning they have just enjoyed has had no parallel. _Some pairs have never known our struggle before_ , Ornstein thinks, and yet somehow it feels all the sweeter for what they have had to overcome, for what they have endured in order to carve out this precious life.

 

A contemplative silence surrounds them, the only sound that of the washcloth as Gwynsen gently wipes at the drying sweat and semen on Ornstein's body. That gentle rhythm, though, is broken by the suddenness of Ornstein's stomach growling, and even lying here naked after sex, it makes him blush red.

 

Gwynsen's delight in this is immediate, enhanced by Ornstein's own embarrassed reaction, surely. “What is this, Ornstein?” he teases. “I thought last night that thou hadst regrets about the amount of feasting that thou partook'st in.”

 

“That was already yesterday, and I am entitled to be hungry again,” Ornstein returns, instinctually defensive – or perhaps it just feels good to banter with Gwynsen, as they have done for many long years.

 

He is lifting himself into a sitting position with his mind traveling to breakfast, when the prince rests a hand on his chest as if steadying him. “I hope thou art not thinking of rising from this bed,” he chides. “We shall call the servants and have them bring something up!”

 

Ornstein gives him a look. “I will at least make myself more presentable, then,” he says, but with barely a shove of his shoulders Gwynsen pushes him back down into the firm bed and then leans over to ring the bell that will summon the servants.

 

Within the minute, a slight girl appears at the door, bowing her head to them as she enters. Ornstein has only had time to conceal his nakedness with the sheets, for her sake, but he is presently hyper-conscious of the smell that hangs thick in the air in the wake of their recent activities. It is likely, of course, that in her position she is inured to all of it. “Yes, my princes?” she asks, all propriety.

 

“My new husband finds himself with an appetite,” Gwynsen calls. “Bring us up something from the kitchens, if thou wouldst.”

 

“Right away, my prince,” she acquiesces with another bow, “Shall you be wanting anything else?”

 

Gwynsen casts a look aside at Ornstein, who merely shakes his head. “No, that is all,” he tells her.

 

With another bow, then, she takes leave of them. _How easy it is to be a prince,_ Ornstein muses. True, as one of Gwyn's elites and captain of the silver knight soldiers, he had been entitled to some of the same, but had waved it away. Always he has preferred to do things his own way, with minimal interruptions. But perhaps it is different when one is born into it.

 

The food arrives only a short time later, another small feast in its own right, though at least it is confined to two trays that are established near the bedside. Ornstein picks through it at his leisure. On any ordinary day he might like to be fully-dressed and eating in the dining hall, but there is an unmistakable appeal in this. Somehow, even, Gwynsen charms him into feeding him individual grapes, one by one, completing the picture of perfect indolence they form together.

 

“In thy vows,” Gwynsen says suddenly, after they have gone through the offerings to their satisfaction. He is still wedged against a pillow, turning just slightly to look in Ornstein's direction. “Thou saidst that thou wert happy. That thou couldst not imagine being happier.”

 

Ornstein turns the words over in his head. “Yes, I did say so,” he agrees, “because it is true.” He had not expected to ever have to justify the words, or explain them.

 

“I want to test those words,” Gwynsen proclaims. “I want to make thee happy beyond even thy imaginings.”

 

Now Ornstein must laugh, at the true and honest sincerity of this speech, and the sentiment behind them. He hopes the prince will forgive him for it; Gwynsen wears a slightly pouty look upon his face. “I want to bring thee happiness as well,” Ornstein promises, his features relaxing as he gazes upon him. “ _That_ is what I should have sworn to thee.”

 

Gwynsen looks perfectly satisfied. A faraway manner seems to come over him as he leans over on his side, to regard him more fully. “It will be a new age for us, Ornstein,” he says, “and for everyone.” From his lips such a pronouncement – in the manner of his Lord father – sounds like it shall be made truth.

 

It is true, Ornstein has heard it said – when the gods are in bliss, all the world benefits. _Let us find bliss then_ , he thinks, and resigns himself to a day spent within it.

 

* * *

 

The next few days are spent in perhaps the nearest state to quiet, matrimonial happiness that Ornstein could have possibly envisioned for himself.

 

That is to say, that aside from the one day of indulgence and indolence that Gwynsen had sworn him to following the wedding, he is back to his duties with renewed zeal and vigor, diving into them with an enthusiasm that has been heightened by his time away.

 

The return to routine makes the days pass smoothly, but obviously, things are not all as they once were. At dinner it is taken as a given that he should sit next to his husband, and they must take no extra care to see each other as they once did, for they end up together every night.

 

How sweet a vision it is! Always in the back of his mind, he has kept a piece of himself alert and aware, seeking out the snare around his ankle, so he does not end up trapped like a wild hare. But how can any man's heart resist getting all which he has ever desired? Even being a warrior of strong resolve, were he to discover this world all a mere dream or illusion, he would find it difficult to force himself awake.

 

The new rooms – for indeed they do feel new – remain comfortable and accommodating. Ornstein had once viewed his quarters as merely a place to sleep, and perhaps sometimes to read, but now he is given to something which others might call “lounging”. Not in laziness, certainly, but there are times after dinner or training in which he might have moments to spare, and it suits him well to observe the view by the window, or ponder over some of the more mysterious wedding presents.

 

He has even had a moment to pick up a book, left lying temptingly on a low table, before belatedly remembering that is the one gifted to them by Seath at the feast. _A mindless show of disrespect, I'd thought._ Nonetheless, he has already opened it and absorbed a few paragraphs, and finds himself detachedly curious about why it was chosen. He sits with it alone for a while, allocating himself the time until the next bell.

 

It is right in the middle of a grand fictional war scene when a servant appears, with tea. Ornstein tries not to look up; he knows it makes them nervous, unused to being observed. Gwynsen, for his part, largely ignores them when they flit about the room.

 

“My thanks,” he says only, and the servant bows and leaves. _Good timing_ , he observes, as he lifts the hot tea. He hadn't even realized he'd wanted it yet.

 

Rarely do the servants bother them. Initially he had been apprehensive, for he knew they closely shadowed members of the royal family, but his fears had been unfounded: for the most part, they enter and leave the room like ghosts, unobserved. Perhaps that is Gwynsen's doing; or perhaps, so soon after the wedding, they are afraid of intruding upon something they do not wish to see. The thought gives him some measure of amusement.

 

When the bell chimes, Ornstein dutifully puts down the book and returns it to its perch on the table. Then he takes stock of the room. Even with the attention it gets from the servants, there is a degree of disorder in the arrangement of the furniture which keeps it from looking quite the sterile, immaculate chamber it had been in the past, when it had housed only the prince alone.

 

 _Speaking of whom_... Ornstein notices a single long, silver hair overlooked on the floor, and cannot help a smile. Though he is not here, there is evidence left of him now, he thinks. It is a room in which people live in, a room that is uniquely theirs.

 

With this thought, he straightens up his appearance, dons his helm, and departs, already happy in the anticipation of returning.

 

* * *

 

Gwynevere and her maidens kneel down, concentrating, speaking the divine words under their breath, and all eyes linger upon them in anticipation until all at once, a pillar of golden light erupts before them, with a sound like faint whispers.

 

In the center of the room lay the pile of shields, lain with great care; the light takes a moment to fully recede, and when it does, it seems to seep deep into the shimmering metal.

 

The dragonslayers step forward then, each knowing exactly where he had placed his shield, and one-by-one they hold them aloft and test the feel of them. They will find them exactly the same weight, Ornstein knows; but enchanted equipment still takes time to get used to. This ring he wears, for example, for Gwynsen has finally told him some of what magic winds through it:

 

“ _Of course thou shalt wield thy weapon more handily, and cast stronger miracles,” the prince had said, “for that is all I am good for; but my sister with her infinite talents has given it a far better quality well-suited to a wedding ring, so that whenever thou holdest it close to thee, it shall calm thy mind and bring thee peace.”_

 

Ornstein had tried it later, closing his eyes and bringing his hand close to his chest, and to his surprise, a subtle, yet pleasing warmth had spread through him, like stepping into a hot bath, or observing something tender and good. It starts near his heart and seems to emanate outwards. The sensation that comes over him is one that comes from the surety of being loved.

 

It is a kind bit of magic, one that he shall take care not to overuse. As for whatever enchantment Gwyndolin had put on it, however, Gwynsen would not tell him, save only to say that it was something to bring him comfort for if they were ever separated or far apart. Ornstein had wished to hear what it was, for it is his dearest hope that he does not ever have to find out firsthand.

 

He comes back to the present, as he hears Gwynevere speaking to the knights. “Noble dragonslayers, your mission is soon upon you,” she says. “The protection I have afforded you will strengthen your shields against the onslaught of dragon's fire. If all goes according to our dear wishes, you shall not ever need to use it.”

 

The dragonslayers kneel before her, and speak their solemn thanks to their beloved Goddess. Gwynevere graciously inclines her heads at them once more, and then she and her maidens take leave of them, feigning ignorance at the way they hold the silver-clad men in thrall.

 

Ornstein glances up. He had noticed some time ago the form of Lord Gwyn up on the second floor balcony, watching, though he has not pointed him out to his fellows. No doubt a few of the more observant dragonslayers have taken notice, too: Dunn has, at least, for Ornstein can tell from his body language, but the greatarchers in particular have been trained to look for unexpected things above them. It is good to see that training activating, even when they are apparently safe within the castle walls.

 

“You should all be glad for the protection and care of the royal family,” Ornstein calls out to his men, “but just because your shields shall guard you from the worst of dragon's fire, do not rely upon it to save you! The best way to stay alive is to avoid contact with the enemy. Remember what we have drilled, and stay aware of places to hunker down in case of ambush.”

 

The dragonslayers shout out in unison, acknowledging their captain. After some time, Ornstein observes, Lord Gwyn leaves without calling attention to himself. He certainly has the right to. _Lately he has taken an increased interest in the dragonslayers,_ Ornstein notes, neutrally. He allows some passive optimism to seep in: perhaps he is looking for more subjects to elevate, to nigh-deify, the way he has with the captain of his knights. Ornstein would like to see one of his dragonslayers bask in that honor, for he knows many of them would relish that above all things, the way he once had.

 

He ushers them all outside, and makes them practice not on illusions – realistic though they may seem – but on solid physical objects, though none of them can cleave a boulder in two quite like he can. Hopefully they are ready for whatever lies ahead. Hopefully they all are.

 

* * *

 

The following day, Ornstein fulfills an unusual appointment. The great salon in the keep was once meant for entertaining, but he finds it far darker than he remembers: massive, draping curtains have been hung above the windows, and the room has an oddly oppressive air, and a slightly sulfuric smell.

 

Gwynsen greets him by the door, and introduces him to the painter. She is an elderly woman – who must still, of course, be many years younger than the both of them – and she squints as she beholds Ornstein in the low light. After some time, she directs them on where to stand, and ambles awkwardly to the window to draw back one of the curtains, tracing the incoming beams of light with her keen eyes until she is satisfied. Then, it has begun.

 

It must be like torture for the prince to stand there so motionlessly, but for Ornstein, it is second nature. He is surprised that he has not been asked to remove his helm, so as they stand here holding their weapons, they must look incredibly warlike, two fearsome champions shining in gold. It will be unlike any existing portrait of a newly-married couple ever painted before, Ornstein is sure. But despite the strangeness of it all, his heart beats hard.

 

Long has he looked up at the statues in Gwyn's cathedral, which depict Lord Gwyn and Gwynevere and Gwynsen side-by-side. So unreachable they seemed, towering images of perfection, the magnificent likenesses almost rival to the genuine Gods themselves. And now, like those monuments, he shall be immortalized standing next to Gwynsen, in this immutable moment.

 

After a time, he is glad that the picture shall depict him in the helm. It is a face he knows almost better than his own, and certainly the one that the people shall know him by. And there is something honest about painting him exactly as he is: a knight.

 

When the hour begins to run long, the painter dismisses them for the day. Gwynsen circles around at once to peer at her work, but Ornstein decides he would rather withhold judgment until he has a chance to see the culmination of her efforts.

 

“It shall be perfect,” Gwynsen declares after a moment's consideration, and Ornstein sees the sincerity on him. _I am glad it shall be a good portrait, too,_ he thinks with peace in his heart, and lets something like anticipation seep in.

 

* * *

 

Artorias and Gough have clearly tried to respect boundaries, where Ornstein's initiation into the royal family is concerned, but they are all sitting together when Ciaran urges him suddenly to take pity on them, too polite they are too ask. And so he is able to tell them about being waited on hand and foot by servants, and supping several nights a week with Lord Gwyn and all his children, and of being painted.

 

The other knights listen raptly, hanging on his every word. Ornstein can tell they are most interested by his increased proximity to the old Lord, so he weaves for them a few anecdotes about the way Gwyn's ever-changing moods can yield to good humor in the presence of his family. He tells them how Lord Gwyn coddles and fusses over Gwyndolin, despite the fact that he is grown; how he constantly encourages him to eat. He tells them how Gwynsen and Gwynevere love to spin humorous tales off each other, in a sort of comedic performance, like those of the traveling fools that entertain Anor Londo's nobility on grand occasions.

 

“And what about this business with the dragons?” Gough asks, unexpectedly.

 

Ciaran and Artorias both throw him a look, and Ornstein hesitates. He knows that at the parley, his fellows will not be present. _I am not sure a dragon would willingly go anywhere near us, if they saw Gough in our number,_ Ornstein thinks.

 

“I do not know what you all have heard, and how much may be considered public knowledge,” he says, “but it is true that we meet with them soon.”

 

This spurs another round of questions. “What if it is a trap?” Artorias asks at last, summarizing it all.

 

“We shall have the entirety of the dragonslayers there,” Ornstein says. “They will be a respectful distance away, but if anything goes wrong, they shall be able to leap in to defend us.”

 

And now he must tell them of the reason for this meeting. It is apparent the knights have heard a smattering of the rumors concerning the first flame, but they are grim to hear Ornstein confirm it. “Dragons understand fire more intimately than we do,” he says, remembering what Gwynsen has told him, “and so as to the fading of the flame, they may have some knowledge of how to stop it.”

 

“Why should they, though, I wonder?” Gough ponders. “Those dragons that yet survive into our Age of Fire will surely endure whatever comes after. And what _does_ come after – an Age of Dark, perhaps?”

 

“I know not. Hopefully we never shall. But of the true dragons, there are not many left,” Ornstein explains. “We can ask those that remain about the great wyverns that inhabit our world, for they are as connected to the dawning of this Age as we are.”

 

Artorias heaves an unhappy sigh. “It seems as though much remains we do not know,” he laments.

 

Ornstein nods. “Indeed,” he confirms, “but what better way to fill in the gaps in our knowledge than by asking directly? This is what Gwynsen reasons, and what the Lords have chosen to put their faith in.”

 

After some time, he is forced to explain that the wyverns cannot be spoken to, directly, but apparently, there are still some old dragons that speak the divine tongue.

 

“Is it true the prince can commune with them directly?” Gough asks, after a time.

 

 _I wonder how he has found that out_ , Ornstein wonders. “Yes,” he says simply.

 

“Extraordinary,” Ciaran murmurs, breaking her long silence. “Then that already means we are much better-equipped to understand them. I suppose he may yet pull this off. After all,” she leans back in her seat, “he has really been fond of surprising me, lately.”

 

When he takes leave of his fellows, he gets the feeling he has satisfied their pleas for caution, but they are clearly still apprehensive about sending much of the royal family – as well as their trusted friend and captain – straight into a gathering of their enemies. No doubt they would like to be at his side, but they all understand the reasons why they cannot.

 

He heads back to the room he shares with Gwynsen, and stumbles into what was once a curious sight – but is quickly becoming more commonplace as the days go by.

 

Gwynsen sits before the open window, utterly motionless, perched on the side of the divan as if he is made of air. His legs are crossed at the knees, one hand holding the other at his ankles. Ornstein stands in that moment of peace for a while, watching him, before making his presence known.

 

“Canst thou hear them, even from here?” he asks, coming up beside him.

 

It takes Gwynsen the barest second to return to himself. His eyes open, and then he is suddenly the big, kinetic form of a God again, smiling up (and then down) at Ornstein as he rises to his feet. “At first, I could not,” he says. “But I think it was merely a matter of practice. I am not even sure if the voices I hear are from living dragons or those long dead. Still, in the moment when I hear them, I feel they are aware of me. Does that make sense?”

 

Was there a time long ago when Ornstein would have lied to him? _No,_ he thinks. _But I would not be so blunt as I am about to be_. “I am afraid it must all be too much for the likes of me to grasp,” he smirks. Gwynsen laughs.

 

“I think I will miss killing dragons,” the prince says, wistful. “Nothing dies in quite the same way, or brings the same thrill. I miss the weight of hearing them fall from the sky. But this is the first thing that has ever made me question my purpose. To think we might unlock the secrets of the first flame – not even Seath could have begun to puzzle at this.”

 

His enthusiasm is palpable in the air around them. _He hates them,_ Ornstein thinks, of his husband and the dragons: _but his fascination with them shall soon entirely smother it out, and be indistinguishable from love._ Every new day fills the prince with ideas, his mind racing to faraway visions of a future that Ornstein cannot conceive yet.

 

Gwynsen assumes a more proper sit now – or attempts it, but Ornstein's favorite chair is simply too small for him, and as always, it lends to the impression that the prince is a being that cannot be contained. “I heard Gwynevere has seen the dragonslayers to offer her protection,” the prince says. “I have meant to check in with them today. How do they fare? The little bastard still thinks he can out-drink me, despite how quickly he becomes a nonsensical idiot.”

 

The words are said with outright fondness. Ornstein knows he refers to Ladh – the prince gets along best with the greatarchers, who seem overall to be the more raucous bunch. “They are all doing well,” Ornstein reports, “though Ladh is no less little, and still given to those inane contests.”

 

“How about thy man, ah, what was his name...” A look of barest concentration wrinkles Gwynsen's brow for a moment. “Ah, yes, Engold, the one who was a coward?”

 

“What of him? Anyway, he is much improved now – do not think of him that way,” Ornstein reproves. He remembers how in the first place Gwynsen was the one who had advocated a second chance for him, despite witnessing his disastrous incident firsthand.

 

“First impressions linger, tragically. But I know he is worthwhile. He is loyal to thee absolutely.”

 

Ornstein has nothing to say to that. “They are all loyal enough,” he says, “for they are about to follow us all into a meeting with dragons – more dragons than anyone has seen in one place for hundreds of years.”

 

Gwynsen has long since given up on the chair, and now, standing, he suddenly pulls Ornstein close. It looks to be another gesture born of his spontaneous energy, like the random shapes assumed by fire as it crackles. “We are married at last,” Gwynsen proclaims, ardently, “and there is much more yet to celebrate on the horizon. I know what thou wilt say – of course, first we will have to focus on succeeding with the dragons...”

 

It seems to Ornstein that when it comes to the parley, much could go wrong, but it would be redundant to say it. “I know we shall all be at their sharpest,” he settles for saying.

 

“Everyone there shall have an interest in the continuation in our world. And what alternative exists to this? For this reason alone, I believe there is no outcome possible but success.”

 

He leans down for the barest moment, and kisses Ornstein on the lips. For a few moments they savor it; and then, just as swiftly, Gwynsen is smoothing his hands down Ornstein's back, and turning to make for the door.

 

“I shall return to thee tonight,” he mentions in parting. “There is much to go over with my father and his advisors, apparently.”

 

Ornstein gives him a cool look, smirking. “There is much to be done from a captain's perspective, as well. Perhaps thou wilt be the one left waiting.”

 

In the end, it does not matter who is right – that is the beautiful thing about it.

 

* * *

 

Ornstein does not have time to bathe or make himself presentable when he receives word. Instead, it is all he can do to make haste to the main hall of the keep, where Quelaag and Quelaan are already surrounded by an array of servants, silver knights, and their original traveling companions from Izalith, who have also been staying in the castle.

 

Despite the large crowd, Ornstein is a conspicuous presence, and the two witches react to seeing him. “My prince,” they both call out, surprised, near in unison. (The address is still foreign, but outwardly Ornstein has acclimated to it.) Then Quelaag takes command of the conversation. “There was no need for thee to hurry here after being given so little notice,” she tells him. “But we are glad to see thee before we go.”

 

Ornstein only nods for now, unsure what to say, as surprised as he is. Gwynevere is here, too, but of the remainder of the royal family, there is no sign. “It is surely my father's deepest regret that, on account of the suddenness of our parting, he cannot be here to see you off,” she tells them, “but we shall not hold you here while urgent business calls you back home.”

 

The two sisters look genuinely regretful as they take turns embracing the Princess. “Thou wert a loyal friend to us,” Quelaag says. “Thou wouldst be welcome in Izalith any time. Shall we try and persuade thy father to lend thee to us?”

 

The three of them manage a laugh. “We shall miss thee greatly, my Princess,” Quelaan agrees, and all three embrace now. Meanwhile Ornstein is still putting together the pieces based on what he has just heard.

 

“Pardon me,” he puts in. “I did not mean to overhear, but I hope this urgent business is nothing grave?”

 

The two witches turn to behold him, then. “Our family is well,” Quelaag says cryptically. “It is only that our mother is given to _moods_. I am sure you all know how it is, living beneath the sway of Lord Gwyn. The original Lords are all so mysterious that way. Who are we but playthings for them? If mother wishes us home, then we must go.”

 

Ornstein nods, looking between them. None present try to dispute the fact that the Lords have their whims, and expect them followed to the letter. He notices that Quelaan is not quite looking at him, a fact which makes his heart a little hurt. Whether it is because of his recent (and seemingly unexpected) marriage, though – or something else – he cannot tell.

 

“My lady,” he says to her, causing her to look up. “I will be saddened to see thee go. I enjoyed our time spent together. I hope we can maintain correspondence.” Then to the both of them: “As Gwynevere says, I know the royal family shall welcome your presence again with open arms.” It is his first time speaking in an official capacity as a member of that family. He knows he must do it, and prides himself on the natural tone of the delivery.

 

Quelaan smiles at him, and speaks some quiet words, but does not quite raise her eyes to his. And as for Quelaag's part, once she has turned to stare out at the mountains which spread out on all sides of the holy city, she does not look back.

 

Standing tall at the doors to the castle – as if keeping vigil over their guests' journey – Ornstein, Gwynevere, and the small contingent of knights watch the procession for a little while. After some time, the princess gives a little sigh. Ornstein turns to see her face, and suddenly despairs to see her looking so melancholy.

 

“Truly, then, no one had any idea?” he ventures, quietly. This departure had been so sudden. It is not like things in Anor Londo to be done this way: quickly, quietly, and with little fanfare. Not things like this.

 

“I did not, at the least,” Gwynevere says, “but surely all are blameless in this matter. The Lord of Izalith has been long without her daughters. No doubt she misses them greatly.” Courteous words, and Ornstein wonders how much of it is natural reflex, or whether those are indeed her true feelings.

 

When Gwynevere excuses herself, Ornstein stands a little longer in the doorway. He does not notice Ciaran until she is just beside him.

 

So many years it has been, and each time it still startles him. “The entire time?” he asks, curious. Where Ciaran conceals herself, he could not possibly guess.

 

“I have heard it all,” she confirms. And then, simply: “Curious one, Quelaag.”

 

Ornstein turns to look at her. The two women had had a mutual respect that was somewhere between admiration and antagonism. “What dost thou think of her, now she is gone?” he inquires.

 

“A keen liar, she is,” Ciaran remarks, strongly, “but a liar.”

 

“What part?”

 

Ciaran simply gives a little shrug at that, the tiniest little roll of her minute shoulders. “I cannot possibly guess at the truth,” she says. “Only whatever strange business her mother is up to, I think she must know full well what it is.”

 

Whatever _strange business_ it is, Ornstein supposes they shall never know. He wonders if Quelaan will take him up on his request to stay in correspondence. She had seemed so earnest before, yet today she could scarcely look him in the eye. _I suppose it is one thing to talk to an unattached knight, and another to talk to him after he has somehow married his way into the royal family_ , he thinks with a touch of acidity.

 

“Oh well. There is no use being dour about it.” Ciaran sounds as though she is chastising him – or perhaps, the both of them. She shifts her stance just the slightest bit, and Ornstein senses a change in topic coming on. “And since we are here, shall I ask how married life has been treating thee, captain? We have seen little of thee in recent days. It seems as though thou art keeping busy...”

 

“There has been much to do,” Ornstein says simply.

 

Ciaran laughs. “Few beings live who remember it, of course,” she begins, “but I have heard whispers that, centuries ago, Lord Gwyn spent a full week abed with his new bride, after their wedding.”

 

The lion's face hides the grimace that spreads over Ornstein's features. Ciaran tilts her head at him, and he gets the feeling she can read his mortified expression. “Oh, but thou shouldst be thankful,” she crows, “for I am sure it had a part in the making of thy prince.”

 

She is deliberately trying to embarrass him. “As for us, we cannot conceive, so I do not see what excuse we would have,” Ornstein returns, “and anyway, I would not know what to do with so much time spent in idleness and leisure. The way things are now... suits me perfectly well.”

 

Ciaran is like a cat, with those golden eyes boring into him, the only true part of her body visible when she is masked and cloaked. “Truth be told, I feel I am the same,” she says after a moment. “I wonder, what would either of us do with no Lord Gwyn, no kingdom? No obligation to any cause or duty or purpose, or even to such things as the first flame?” It is not the first time they have asked themselves this question.

 

“It does not matter, does it?” Ornstein replies after a beat. “This is the only life we shall know.”

 

* * *

 

News of the witches' sudden departure had struck like a wave through the castle: quick to spread, and quick to dissipate, at least in most of the circles Ornstein moves in. It is only Gwynevere who seems like she shall continue to be torn up about it for a few days, and supposedly it is in the spirit of cheering her that Gwynsen starts throwing these small private revels.

 

“To celebrate life, and love,” he had said to his sister, when asked, “and to get in as much practice as possible in throwing these affairs, instead of letting father have all of the fun.”

 

Ornstein does not contradict him, though he knows Lord Gwyn's mind is far from parties just now, much the same as his own. During the day – as a faithful knight – he goes over battle plans with the old Lord and his advisors. He drills their defensive formations into his dragonslayers until he is confident they know them backwards and forwards. _Again, again, again._ He has even tried meditating, the way he has seen Gwynsen do it, but try as he might, he cannot hear the dragons as the prince can. _Oh well_ , he thinks – _everyone has limitations, and these are mine._ Though only a few nights stand between them and that fateful excursion, he feels as prepared as perhaps he ever might.

 

It is evening now, though, and duty is behind him. Ornstein casts a look about the room. These functions are nothing when compared to the scale of, say, the wedding feast, or any large social function organized by Gwynsen's royal father, but the atmosphere is more erratic, and far more intimate. Of course, as in Lord Gwyn's own hall, a few of the knights bicker and yell, and moments later can be found shrieking with mirth around the same table. These particular warriors are known to Ornstein to be Gwynsen's favorites, at least in times of merrymaking.

 

What truly sets these displays of drunkenness apart from those that are accepted in the Lord's grand hall, is that here, they are often coupled with idleness and indolence.

 

Settees large enough for parties of Gods occupy most of the sparsely-lit room. Sprawled across them are their guests, in various stages of comfort, listening now to Gwynevere, herself reclining comfortably as she weaves a rapturous tale. A few maidens at her feet lean against her knees, looking up at her in the way a child might hang onto the words of its mother. In a corner, unobserved, a man plucks a lazy tune on a foreign instrument, and no one objects to it. Ornstein feels his own eyelids settling comfortably, and without thinking of it, relaxes his un-armored body more fully against Gwynsen, who (though listening still to his sister) immediately begins tracing the shape of him through his thin doublet, one hand seeking as it travels along his side.

 

“And that is why wanderers do not heed words from foxes anymore,” Gwynevere concludes, finishing the tale, to lazy applause and praise. She smiles, and attempts something of a modest bow from her position.

 

“I know a good tale,” Gough starts up – from the one cushioned chair big enough for a giant – and launches into it as naturally as any good storyteller. “It concerns three knights lost in the forest after dark, with no light to guide them home...”

 

 _Why does it seem like so many of the best stories are about lost travelers?_ Ornstein wonders absently, listening as it unfolds. He has a feeling he has heard this one before, and yet the way Gough tells it, it is all too easy to get lost in the details.

 

The backbone of the story is simple. The knights fight and get separated: that is their original mistake. Then the first knight gets trapped in the swamp and is devoured by beasts, and the second misses a crevasse in the earth and falls to his death, and the third simply sits down and waits until sunrise, and lets the light guide his way home.

 

It is a story popular with the devotees of the sun in Anor Londo, but not one of Ornstein's favorites, despite the skill in its telling. _Sometimes action is the only option,_ he knows, _and one simply has to be clever enough to avoid the dangers that might come._

 

It is with something approaching surprise that Ornstein notices the actions of an anonymous soldier and maiden – ones he does not personally know, but who must be known to Gwynsen or someone else here – down on the floor, strewn over the careless pillows which litter the room. The woman's garments are loose gossamer wrappings trailing from her neck to her navel, and the soldier has one hand tucked beneath them, fondling her breast.

 

A shameless display, maybe, but such things are not unusual in gatherings of Gods, Ornstein knows. It's been many years since he himself has made some sort of appearance at one of these functions, and he is not the sort to do such things in front of others.

 

It is partway through the next tale when Ornstein is surprised by hands at his waist, and he finds himself manhandled until he is suddenly on Gwynsen's lap, straddling the prince's waist. The shift into such an intimate position clears some of the tired fog that has built up in his mind, and his gaze quickly travels from Gwynsen's interested stare, to the other people in the room with them, but the easy atmosphere all about has not changed.

 

He looks back at the prince again, and this time he can read the full extent of what is written on his face: it is halfway between a question and a challenge. And as it happens, Ornstein rises to meet most challenges.

 

He leans forward, keeping his eyes on his prince until he captures Gwynsen's mouth with his own, as the prince gently hums into the contact. There is a part of him that is still alerting him to the fact that they not conducting themselves secretly – even after all that has transpired – but the voice's presence is thrilling in his choosing to ignore it. He opens his jaw, deepens their kiss. The rest of the surrounding world ceases to exist, save for the winding story that continues being told.

 

Gwynsen's hands carve a lazy path around the outside of his thighs, then to his lower back, taking their time, applying the gentlest pressure, but firm and insistent enough that Ornstein cannot forget him there. It is shameful, what this is doing to him. He wonders if everyone remains wonderfully uncaring all around them, whether some are repulsed or dismayed, or even if there are those who regard them with interest. The last thought is like a current of lightning to his spine.

 

Just how far would Gwynsen be willing to go, here in the midst of all these people?... Ornstein is achingly hard, and can feel Gwynsen just as excited beneath him. Of course, Gods and princes can do as they please – they are the ones who set standards of decency for all of the kingdom, and even then they exist above any obligation to observe them. These oncoming thoughts are all burning hot in his mind, but nonetheless, he knows it is only a fancy, for now.

 

He makes eye contact with Gwynsen, and without a word the prince hooks his grip beneath Ornstein's thighs to support his weight, and when he stands he lifts them both. The current storyteller is still speaking, and Gwynsen does not make excuses for them, only carries his knight out of the parlor without a word. Ornstein knows they are unlikely to be back.

 

* * *

 

Making heirs, Gwynsen gaily calls it, though Ornstein does not love the euphemism – too much does it remind him of the shortcomings of his anatomy, in that way.

 

“Do not call it that,” he says on this particular occasion, instead of waiting for the prince to tire of this joke.

 

It is not that he had ever truly considered having children of his own – it is not the lot of most noble knights, after all, particularly when one is of such high status. Perhaps his unhappiness stems from how it remains one duty that he can simply never perform, regardless of his own diligence, and one that would be expected from most people in this circumstance.

 

He ends up having to explain it all when Gwynsen asks him about it.

 

“Hmm,” Gwynsen muses, and turns over in bed to observe him with idle interest. It is night, and they are soon to sleep. “Then, if the body were able?”

 

“I don't know,” Ornstein confesses after a pause. “It would not be convenient. But I would, I think. For thee, I would.”

 

What a strange conversation this is, as if it is something they shall ever have to trouble over. “I can see them now.” Gwynsen sounds entertained. “Beautiful boys and girls, all with hair as red as fire. Truly the children of the sun.” He is being playful, but something about it still cuts. Ornstein can almost picture them, himself. In his mind's eye, they have wild silver hair and eyes like storms, and are infinitely far away from him, divine in a way he is not.

 

Gwynsen speaks more deliberately when Ornstein's mood apparently does not lighten. “I, for one, am glad,” he says, gently. “Thou knowest how my mother passed.”

 

That is something he had not considered. The queen had died in birthing Gwyndolin. Without Seath's intervention, according to the tale, they would both have been lost. “I often remember what her death did to my father,” Gwynsen admits, quietly. “It is terrifying to think of how thoroughly it has changed him. It may have been the delineation between a good king and a bad one.”

 

Ornstein cannot help remembering Gwynsen's words from the wedding party. _I still think of it, and often_ , he had said about that fateful day when a golden wyvern had nearly torn him apart.

 

It is not good. A king cannot be so afraid of losing someone. “I do not wish to ever die and leave thee,” Ornstein says, “but thou art stronger than thy father! Do not give thyself over to thoughts like this. Thou art too afraid of the loss, especially for a god of war. It does not befit thee.”

 

He can tell that he has upset him. Touched his anger, even. Were he another, he might have felt fear at the look that crosses Gwynsen's face. “I know it all,” the prince growls at last. “Of course I can feel how it blinds me and tempers my judgment! Think of how much worse it would be if there were children to fear for, as well.”

 

Ornstein watches him, steadily, as he sees the passing tumult wash over Gwynsen's face, replaced by something mournful. They do not often quarrel, and he dislikes the feel of it. Unafraid, he pulls the prince into his arms and runs his fingers through that coarse silver hair.

 

“It is not weakness,” Ornstein says, “so do not reason it to be. Grief has made thy father cruel and hateful. It would not do the same for thee. I know thee more than anyone, and I know it would not.”

 

After a moment, Gwynsen settles into his embrace, and sighs.

 

“Thou art right in many things, Ornstein. I hope thou art right in this, too, and that I shall never have to know it.” He presses a kiss to Ornstein's collarbone. “Our legacy shall not be children, after all, but prosperity, I hope – adaptability. My father has long clung to the world as he knows it, rather than the world as it could be.”

 

“Art thou nervous?” Ornstein asks suddenly. “In the least?”

 

“About the parley?” Gwynsen seems to consider his answer. “I think I do not have time to consider all the things that might go wrong. In that event, there are too many factors at stake to do anything but improvise. I believe we must have faith in our ability to meet that challenge.”

 

Ornstein nods, comprehending fully. Anyway, it is not Gwynsen's job to go over the minutiae of the proceedings – it is his, just as it always is. They are born partners in this way, and ever shall be.

 

“Let us sleep, now,” Gwynsen says at last. “The coming days will find us in need of it.”

 

The prince is still nestled comfortably into Ornstein's embrace, as if he is ignorant to the fact that, before morning, he will have somehow wrenched himself away in sleep and drifted to the other side of the bed. Ornstein tightens his grip. It is nice to pretend sometimes, that he can keep him close if he tries.

 

“Goodnight then, Gwynsen,” he mutters, and gives himself over to oblivion.

 

* * *

 

When Ornstein wakes, it is to Gwynsen, fully-dressed, bursting into the room, and he knows at once something is wrong. _I did not even notice him get up_ , he thinks.

 

“Come right away,” the prince says, and then, hesitating: “here –”

 

Ornstein is already out of bed and pulling on his underclothes as Gwynsen prepares to help him with his armor. They work in tandem, adopting a brisk pace together, and are soon out the door.

 

“Tell me a bit of what this is,” he says as they walk, though he knows that wherever Gwynsen is taking him, it is where he shall soon find out the full truth. Already he has ruled out a few things. _It is something more to do with me than him, or he would have come to me for comfort, or not at all,_ he thinks. So presumably the royal family is safe. _But –_

 

Gwynsen's stare is hard. “There has been an execution,” he says, and Ornstein's blood chills.

 

He thinks they shall descend beneath the castle, where the ruins of Smough's victims are kept, but curiously, it is to the private dining hall for Gwyn's elite knights that they go. Ciaran is already there, eyeing them warily as they enter.

 

“What has happened?” Ornstein wastes no time in asking, trusting Ciaran to give him a more direct answer.

 

“Well, to hear Lord Gwyn tell of it,” she says, “there has been a conspiracy against his life.” And then, to her disbelieving audience, she explains.

 

* * *

 

The dungeons beneath the castle reek of rot, and ruin. Ornstein's mind is still reeling from all he has heard, and so the smell barely registers in his mind. A name had fallen from Ciaran's lips: an unbelievable, unexpected name.

 

 _That cannot be. Why would he? He would not._ His mind runs in the same cycles over and over again, but still the facts remain.

 

Smough is reclining on a plain-hewn wooden bench as they enter, and looks up as casually as if they have caught him cooking dinner at home. “My, my: guests,” he croons. With a bit of an effort, he rises to meet them. “If you were hoping to play audience, I'm afraid you've missed the main event.” He delivers the last line with what sounds like a touch of regret.

 

With a start, Ornstein realizes he is standing beside the head – severed from the rest of the body – and then recoils, again, as he realizes he recognizes the face. “That chambermaid,” he exclaims. “She was an attendant to our rooms.” He looks to Gwynsen to confirm; the prince merely nods. A very unobtrusive, unextraordinary girl, who had never given them trouble, and had had a talent for choosing her timing well.

 

“An accomplice,” Smough shrugs offhandedly. “What does it matter? Thou canst try asking her questions, though, if thou'dst like.” Ornstein wonders if, beneath that helm, the brutish man grins crookedly at his own joke. “I do feel robbed, though – I was hoping they would catch the silver scoundrel, as well. To flee the castle all by himself, with all of his fellows after him, he may be as good as dead already. But that sort of death brings me no pleasure.”

 

The facts that have been delivered to him remain thus: that for reasons beyond anyone's comprehension, one of Ornstein's own dragonslayers had employed a chambermaid in some sort of underhanded plot to depose Lord Gwyn, while the old Lord slept. One of Ciaran's Blades, hiding in the eaves while the plan was hatched, had been the source for all this. Moreover, it was without trial, and while most of the castle still slept, that the man responsible had been sentenced to an immediate death, and had narrowly escaped.

 

A fact which was, no doubt, due at least in part to his uncommon skill, and the esteem in which he had been held in the eyes of his fellows.

 

Engold.

 

 _How can that be?_ Ornstein's mind demands again, for in truth, he can think of no person less likely to engage in such a scheme, even if he did possess some sort of desire to kill Lord Gwyn (another stretch of the imagination). The man had been blessed with natural talent, it is true; but he'd remained proper to the letter, and though he still feared dragon's fire, he favored a straightforward and honorable approach when dealing with people.

 

The mountains surrounding the castle are searched for most of the surrounding day, but Engold cannot be found – only traces where he might have rested or eaten or sheltered. Otherwise, it seems safe to assume he has escaped justice.

 

Ornstein does not know how to feel about it. Rather, he is not sure what he is supposed to feel, for this is loss given new form. Many would consider it far worse than death, for it is craven and dishonorable. The other dragonslayers oscillate between disbelief, reticence, and cruelty, remembering their fellow, but Ornstein can see how they hurt, too.

 

He tries to gather more info from Lord Gwyn, but the old God is obstinate to a fault. No sooner does Ornstein express his relief to see his Lord safe than Gwyn waves away his attentions, and his questions, too.

 

“What's done is done, Ornstein,” Lord Gwyn says. “I do not blame thee for being blinded to it, for he was thy gifted charge, and it was thy wish to see him prosper.”

 

Ornstein swallows, knowing he will have to be more direct with Gwyn than he wishes to be. “It is only that I have a hard time believing him capable of such acts,” he attempts. “If only I had been able to ask him –“

 

“There is only one way to handle those who would commit treason,” Gwyn thunders, sounding furious, “and that is to separate head from neck. How many follies have resulted from mercy, or from some misguided desire for what they call _honest justice_! Already I am furious enough that he has escaped, and made fools of us in so doing. I have just sent out word to the human settlements that anyone who brings me his head shall be well-rewarded.”

 

Ornstein has a clear picture of Engold's disembodied head being handed to Lord Gwyn – his brown hair hanging limply around his face, his expression as slackjawed as when he had stared down a fire-breathing (though illusory) dragon – and tightens his own features. It is no good speaking to him this way, and he is right – what is done is done. Nothing good can come of pressing the issue. Whether Engold is guilty or not, Gwyn's judgment has landed. “Very good, my Lord,” he says emotionlessly, and takes leave of him.

 

He is preparing how he shall handle the dragonslayers' last scheduled training exercise when Gwynsen appears and grabs at his shoulder, until they are standing closely together in the empty hall. “How is it?” the prince asks, seriously.

 

Ornstein shakes his head heavily. He knows Gwynsen can read the weight of it off of him, and so there is no need to give voice to it. Sorrow must wait a while, until after the parley with the dragons, at least, and by then who knows where his mind will have put it.

 

Gwynsen sighs. “Ornstein,” he says at length, “I worried he would think us involved in this.”

 

That makes Ornstein look up, sharply. Somehow the thought had not occurred to him. It is true that sometimes they exchange dangerous words, but only spoken in the utmost privacy. He knows neither of them has any intention of acting on them unless it becomes absolute necessity. _For the good of the kingdom, or something else._

 

“He does not,” he replies, unsteadily, “or... does he?”

 

“I think he does not, after all,” Gwynsen says, “I know he could see the genuine shock off of myself and thee both. And he knows I at least am poor at hiding it.” Now the prince has a bitter, almost angry look upon his face. “I know not what possessed him to do this,” he growls, “but I regret every mercy I have ever given him. A coward is a coward, after all. And the damage he could have done to us...”

 

 _In Gwynsen's mind, Engold is guilty beyond a doubt_ , Ornstein realizes suddenly. It is the only logical conclusion, he knows, for after all, what could compel a Lord's Blade to lie about what she has seen? And yet...

 

“It is an ill omen,” Ornstein laments at last. “I feel it is. To lose one of our own on the eve of this parley... Fate could not spell it out any clearer.”

 

“Sometimes people shall surprise thee, Ornstein,” Gwynsen says, his voice overwhelmingly gentle. _He is pitying me,_ Ornstein thinks sourly. “And do not speak that way! Fate does not rest in the hands of mere men like Engold. Ours is the company of Gods! So when we go forth tomorrow-”

 

“I was a mere man like him, once,” Ornstein says, simply.

 

A look crosses over Gwynsen's face, realization at what he has said. “Forgive me,” he speaks at last, shamed. “I did not mean-“

 

“I know,” Ornstein cuts in. Much as he loves him utterly, there is likely very little Gwynsen can do to ease his pain or nascent anxiety. “I shall cope with this. Nothing remains to be done but to focus on our duties. Whatever unfolds on the field, we will meet it while down one single man, and logistically that is the full extent of it. And now I should go, unless...?”

 

Gwynsen seems not to realize for a moment that he is being asked a question, and with the briefest tilt of his head he indicates he is done. It does not feel quite right to part like this, so Ornstein settles a hand into his grip and squeezes it just the slightest bit before he heads away.

 

The events of tomorrow shall mark either the truth of his fears, or the prevailing of Gwynsen's convictions. He shall try with all of his strength to bring about the latter.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next... dragon time
> 
> kept going back and forth on whether or not to sanitize the beginning of this chapter, at some point I removed it and added it back in lol. Thanks for being patient with me
> 
> \+ Thank you again for reading ❤️


	11. First Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last: the parley with the dragons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments!! It really does mean so much to me. Finally back with this chapter, been busy.

 

* * *

 

Preparations are complete: horses have been burdened, weapons examined, tactics rehearsed. Nothing remains but to meet the dragons in the field. And then part bloodlessly, or so they all hope.

 

Their meeting place is almost a day's ride from the gates of Anor Londo – there shall only be a few hours left of the afternoon's light by the time they arrive. In the meantime, it will be a hard and perilous trek through the canyon, and the brief rest taken along the way will be surely fraught and tense.

 

Gwynsen had been cheery in the first leg of the trip, bantering with Ladh and Ornstein at turns, and for a time, attempting to brighten the spirits of Gwyndolin with loud jokes and stories. The Dark Sun has been rather somber today, but then, it is hard to miss the anxiety that clings to nearly every heart.

 

Ornstein finds himself wishing dearly for the company of Ciaran, Artorias, and Gough. Those reasons that had seemed so logical and important before are so inconsequential now when he thinks of them. True, Ciaran cannot fight dragons, but she has a quick wit, and always knows what hidden angle to look for in negotiations. And the appearance of Gough may frighten the dragons, but then, he does not have to be wielding his terrible greatbow, and even his offbeat musings are deeper and cleverer than the crowing of Gwyn's advisors. As for Artorias, he may prefer to go to war against men, and other such non-winged foes, but what Ornstein would not give to have him here riding by his side, even in silence. Where Artorias goes, peace follows him – delivered in one way or another.

 

Instead, he must ride within view of Executioner Smough, and suffer the man's intermittent non-sequiturs, each seeming so innocent and all the more dubious for it, knowing the nature of the speaker. It is unclear what Gwyn thinks Smough can do in the face of dragons, but he is not in a position to criticize the old Lord's judgment.

 

Eventually, they reach their intended lunching spot and briefly dismount. This location is defensible, and they have a clear vantage of the surrounding skies.

 

Ornstein checks in briefly with the dragonslayers. They claim to need for nothing except a meal. The rations are unfolded and prepared, and they await Lord Gwyn's blessing before they all dig in. The old Lord gives them a few words of encouragement, and with that, their last bit of respite has begun.

 

Ornstein eats slowly and carefully, watching the faces around him as they light up with awakened appetite, and the natural cheer that comes from sharing food with fellows. _If it goes wrong today_ , he knows, _I shall have to watch some of them die._

 

It is a grim thought, one that does not aid his focus or resolve, only adds to his worries, and so he shoves it away. He seeks out Gwynsen, and finds him sitting apart from Gwyndolin, though he knows they had sat down together. He is about to comment on this, but something brings him pause. The prince is looking at something in his hands, and Ornstein recognizes it in the same moment that he feels his face color.

 

A few days before, the portrait of the two of them together had been finished, and with great anticipation Ornstein had finally beheld it. For a few moments, he'd been speechless. There they were, the two of them standing side-by-side, striped with the gold of the incoming sun, and in every detail, looking as though fate had intended them together: as brothers-in-arms, and friends, and as lovers. Somehow, Ornstein had felt all of it communicated in the swathes of paint on that monumental canvas. And that was why he had not objected when Gwynsen had asked him to sit for another one.

 

The portrait the prince holds is small, no bigger than his hand, and it depicts Ornstein unhelmed, a neutral expression on his face, his red hair stark against the dark backdrop. Somehow, this too shows more than simply looking into a mirror. It is almost realer than life.

 

“Why?” he asks simply, after Gwynsen notices him. “Thou knowest I am here beside thee.”

 

The prince only offers him a tiny smile, before carefully placing the portrait back in its wrappings. It is just like the kind that soldiers carry on campaigns with them, Ornstein thinks: tiny mementos of loved ones they fear of never seeing again. “I could not help it, it is such a handsome likeness. And in that moment thou wert not before my eyes to scold me for how foolish I am being.”

 

“Foolish?”

 

Ornstein considers him as Gwynsen gives a little shake of his head, and stares troublingly into the distance.

 

“It is nothing. I am letting weaker thoughts run wild. Nothing fit for a God.”

 

The language of nerves is written into his body, too, albeit differently than how it manifests on the soldiers: Gwynsen's posture is unnaturally stiff, his brow set too stonily. “It is natural to have apprehensions,” Ornstein says. “We all here feel them-”

 

“Well, I should not,” Gwynsen interjects. “This entire undertaking was originally my doing, and as a prince I must be confident enough to stand behind this decision utterly. I know not why all of a sudden, _now_ , I feel-”

 

But instead of wasting time searching for words to describe it, he merely lets out an annoyed breath, and lets his head tilt against his chest. “Forgive me,” he adds after a moment. “It will pass.”

 

“Foolish prince indeed,” Ornstein scolds him, earning him a sulky look that he enjoys, “thou speakest to thy wedded spouse, dost thou not? What use is there pretending at perfection?”

 

Slowly, Gwynsen gives him a sly look. “True, thou must have cataloged my many faults already over the years,” he says, his usual jest returning, “but for the sake of our matrimonial happiness, I shall still endeavor to show them to thee as little as possible.”

 

They talk about other things for a short while: the steady weather which must surely hold, the state of the horses. Anything but dragons. Ornstein forgets to ask about Gwyndolin.

 

It is time to set forth again. They walk together back to where the mounts are waiting. “And as to thy portrait,” Ornstein adds, before they step into the unknown, “thou shalt have to get me a matching one.”

 

Gwynsen offers up a grin that is almost as bright as his usual. “But of course. I shall never want thee to be in danger of forgetting my face.”

 

* * *

 

Lord Gwyn rides beside his eldest son when their company reaches the great stone formation that Ornstein knows to be the marker of their arrival.

 

The prince dismounts. All around him, others do the same. Everyone knows their role, and they work quickly. There in the clearing, their weapons lain on the ground before them, shall stand the glory of Anor Londo: Lord Gwyn himself, accompanied by his firstborn and the captain of his knights.

 

Well behind the three of them stand the others: Gwyndolin, Smough, Gwyn's advisors, a few scribes and witnesses, as well as a few ordinary soldiers. And far behind them at a respectable distance, shielded by the sloped cliff face, are stationed the dragonslayers, ready to rush forth into battle to defend their Lord if necessary.

 

There is no sign of any dragons, but that is expected.

 

Wordlessly, they wait. The three of them bear themselves as silently as statues. Wind echoes through the canyon walls all around them, but besides the sounds of nature, it is silent.

 

Ornstein stays alert, but distantly, he listens to the faraway animal cries: the screeching of a falcon far above, the calling of a wild cat. All of those noises go silent the moment he hears it: the unmistakable beating of great wings. Then, he spots them.

 

The specks on the horizon suddenly, quickly, loom large in their eyes: with awe, Ornstein watches the approach of the draconic figures, in so many various shapes and sizes. Many centuries have passed since the last time he witnessed so many together. The sight of it uproots his mind suddenly and deposits him in some long-lost moment: standing alongside his Lords in a different context, all of them bent on destruction and slaughter. How strange that time is when weighed alongside this one!

 

Though he wears his armor, he can feel the dust displaced by the mighty gusts generated by the dragons as they near the ground. One by one, their feet touch the stone beneath. They situate themselves in a staggered formation all around them, staring down their lordly guests. _How meager we must look to them._ And there, amidst all of its smaller fellows – _it cannot be, and yet –_

 

In the company of so many fearsome fellows, Ornstein somehow had not seen it approaching: a true everlasting dragon, for there is nothing else that this beast could be. He knows this fact deep in his bones, for the sight of the dragon brings an itch for his spear that is urgent and primal. So Seath was right: at least one of his former compatriots still remains in this world.

 

It is hard to look at anything else, and yet, with an instinctive scan of the sky, Ornstein recognizes Gwynsen's mount: the King of the Storm, the only true wyvern here, although he does not go below with the dragons, but hovers in the sky above at a distance. Still, Ornstein would recognize the wyvern's feathery form anywhere, for it is unlike any he has seen before.

 

Back down on the ground – or rather, positioned in a semicircle at a distance from Lord Gwyn's party – all is stillness, until it is Gwynsen who steps forward, surprising even Ornstein.

 

“Mighty dragons,” Gwynsen bows respectfully, “Thank you for agreeing to this meeting. I hope it is clear that our intentions are peaceful, and that we mean to come away from this place in greater friendship than when we arrived.”

 

His words land silently upon ancient ears. It must sink into the stone. The dragons are still, their hulking figures impassive. Gwynsen does not flinch, but Ornstein can feel the apprehension spreading among their party.

 

At last – one of the dragons leans forward now, and all eyes fall upon it. Surely it is not disloyal to say that it is a splendid creature, its scales impossibly reflecting both red and green as they shift beneath powerful muscle.

 

“I am called Rohedran, blood of Gwyn,” calls the dragon, “And only great need could have united us in the call for such a meeting. So, also, must it be for thy house. There is no need for us to pretend that our intentions are friendship.”

 

They speak like Seath, Ornstein notes with some sourness, but it does not upset him. Truthfully, anything friendlier from the dragons – _after so many years we have spent slaying them so efficiently_ – would seem untruthful, and expressly deceptive. Even with hostility among them, so long as they all stand on honest ground, progress forward will be possible.

 

“Indeed,” Gwynsen agrees. “There is reason for great mistrust on your side. It is with this consideration that we have come with assurances for our own safety. I hope you do not think it deceptive.”

 

Lord Gwyn, Ornstein notices as the greetings go on, seems content to let his firstborn son speak. It is the longest Ornstein has seen the old Lord go in a diplomatic meeting without asserting his own will.

 

“May I ask, Rohedran,” Gwynsen says, “if you have been chosen to represent all of your kin, the way that I have?”

 

At this, the dragon inclines its head back slightly at its fellows, and Ornstein wonders if somehow in asking this question, the prince has blundered.

 

Finally, “Many of them do not speak – they have forgotten the divine tongue, or else willfully refuse to utter it,” Rohedran replies. Ornstein gets the sense that it is an honest answer. “But it is not their wish to be unheard. You, son of Gwyn, come forward. I know what you have seen, what Haaluun has shown you.”

 

Unhesitatingly, Gwynsen steps forward, as Rohedran cranes his neck towards the ground, offering his forehead for the prince to touch. Ornstein watches with rapt attention, something like fear fluttering distantly in his heart, safely confined within this golden armor which keeps him grounded to his duty – yet he cannot help the way he forgets to breathe as he watches Gwynsen falter briefly after he moves his hand away.

 

It is surely with baited breath that all of them watch the prince now, as he spins about to face his fellows, looking as robust as ever. “Friends,” he shouts to the gathered men and Lords among them, “I shall speak to you the names of the dragons which now gather here with us in peace.”

 

And so the names are recited. There is Hekax, the tyrant of the sea: an immense blue monstrosity that has not stopped eyeing Lord Gwyn since his arrival. On an adjacent ledge is perched a dragon called Balmorn, who is grey with scales almost approaching some other color, depending on the light, and who stands as rigidly as Ornstein himself. It is a creature with beauty to rival any that he has ever seen. And then there is Neslasar, Semaret, and Lofran, Rohedran themselves of course, and finally the great stone dragon, who, apparently – has forsaken any name to be known by.

 

Ornstein watches the old beast, curiously. He wonders if it has seen longer years than the canyons in which they stand. If the legends are true, the everlasting dragons had been around since the shaping of the world. _Has Gwynsen seen the truth of that when he communes with dragons?_ Ornstein shall have to ask him, later. He has never felt anything in his heart looking at one of them, until whatever it is he feels in him now.

 

“They are the last of their kind, this dragon,” Gwynsen says now, surprising them all. “That is how urgently they felt the need. Look carefully! For apart from my family, there are few among you who have ever witnessed such a sight, and likely many of you shall never witness it again.”

 

The gravity of this proclamation takes a moment to go around. And then, wasting no time – the dragons speak.

 

Balmorn – the grey beast – rises from their perch and lets loose a bellowing wail that Rohedran translates at turns. Ornstein gets the impression that Gwynsen has some understanding, as well.

 

“The state of the world has gone off-kilter,” Rohedran announces. “I know you too have felt it! For we have witnessed the Witch of Izalith and her children poking around the Kiln of the First Flame. We are sure the implications of what this means for your kind is clear. The power of the Gods cannot sustain itself without the light of this fire.”

 

Gwynsen nods, again speaking for all of them, for like before, Lord Gwyn is as one of his stone likenesses in his castle: a statue. “Indeed you are right,” Gwynsen agrees, “but what this means for the dragons has long been unclear to us. Could not dragonkind survive into this new age?”

 

A great cracking sounds, and for a split second, Ornstein thinks it is the motions of the Earth. But then it continues and he places it viscerally: it is the sound of a stone dragon's scales as they slide together.

 

The nameless dragon rears itself up on its forelegs, impressing upon all of them its incredible size – even those of them who had long ago witnessed the full glory of its kin. It lets loose a sound like an avalanche, like boulders crashing, from within its belly.

 

The cacophany, impossibly, sounds almost like music.

 

“It is true that one such as myself may persist until the end of all days,” Gwynsen translates, sounding shaken, “but it is not for my own sake that I concern myself. All dragons not born of rock and earth have a heritage that goes back to fire. For their sake, and yours, shall we sustain the fire... For what comes after is the reign of –“ Gwynsen stops short.

 

Rohedran finishes. “Humans,” they hiss. “And so shall all worthwhile things in this world be lost, for mankind's soul is as a swallowing void, an abyss which leaves its mark upon all things that it touches.”

 

Ah.

 

So that it is. Humans.

 

Ornstein knows that once, he was a man. Or at least, he thinks so. Was there some delineation between his race and the men of this age, who creep along every corner of this earth? It has been many centuries, and he is no longer sure.

 

Whatever he was, so had been Artorias, and Ciaran. In the years following those knighthoods, the everyday people of Anor Londo had acquired many traits of the Gods: longer life, better vitality, a weightier form. But once, they had surely been just men. _Even Lord Gwyn, maybe, before finding the Lord Soul._ Ornstein feels this deep within his chest. But no one ever speaks of it. No one dares speak of these things.

 

“We thought the first flame a wicked thing,” Rohedran continues – speaking for the stone dragon, who has taken up its melodic bellowing again. “It was the harbinger of your kind! An unfortunate advent for all who called themselves dragon. But perhaps the birth of the first flame was not a spontaneous event, but rather, a manifestation of the fire that is within all dragons. Perhaps we are its shepherds, meant to maintain it. Perhaps it is as essential to our prolonged existence as it is to yours.”

 

A murmur goes out amongst the party of Lord Gwyn. To some of these lesser advisers, perhaps, this sentiment of the dragons comes as a complete shock.

 

Something has been bothering Ornstein, he realizes – for even as he dedicates most of his mind to the proceedings, there is a part of him that cannot help but tirelessly scan his surroundings. And for every moment since the moment they arrived, Ornstein notes – following mentally in the direction of his own eyes – Hekax, the giant blue dragon, has been watching Lord Gwyn. How does he watch him, though? Is it like how a beast watches its prey, or perhaps how it watches the hunter: considering if it can get its jaws around the hunter's neck before the hunter takes its pelt and brings its head to be mounted?

 

_No, that is my own interpretation,_ Ornstein thinks. He feels suddenly dizzy with the sharpness of the image in his mind. It means nothing. It does not.

 

“If your interest is in the flame, as ours is,” Gwynsen says to the assembled dragons, “then both of our peoples have an interest in its care. However, we know not how to do this duty. Have you any ideas? Whatever you suggest, we shall scramble to fulfill it.”

 

Hekax speaks now, for the first time, and it is in the divine tongue, not the language of dragons.

 

“Treacherous you are,” the dragon cries, fury in its voice, “for we know what the witch plans, as dost thou, Gwyn!”

 

It is as if all the tenuous goodwill in the air has been shattered. Gwyn still stands as a statue, but for the first time, Gwynsen stumbles: he looks confusedly back at his father.

 

“Your words are spoken in rashness, cousin!” Rohedran scolds Hekax, looking dour. “But hear us, Gwyn, for there is but one way to sustain the fire, and no witchcraft shall be sufficient!”

 

And now – at last – with one simple motion, Lord Gwyn commands the attention of every last soul among them. He takes a single step towards the assembled beasts; towards the dragons which have journeyed far and come from all corners of the earth to hear these words. “And that way shall involve the continuation of every last life that calls itself dragon, is that correct, beast?” Lord Gwyn demands, with a voice like a trembling storm. And that is the last linear action Ornstein's mind can faithfully record in sequence.

 

With terrifying speed, Hekax lunges for Lord Gwyn. The dragon is immense, but it launches itself like a cobra uncoiling, and is upon them in an instant. Already Gwyn has thrown himself to the side, but Ornstein is there.

 

The dragonslayer spear, placed to the side in a gesture of good faith, is already back in his hands. He takes account of the rampaging dragon for only an instant, committing to instinct the locations of Lord Gwyn, Gwynsen, and all their fellows among them before he makes his move. With effortless grace (practice married to experience), he has gotten in striking position.

 

The first plunge of the spear goes directly into the junction of the dragon's wing at the shoulder, and Hekax screams. The dragon is too big to kill safely with one blow, but that is okay. Ornstein knows how to handle bigger foes than this.

 

“Stop this!” he hears distantly, and his mind shifts to recognize the voice of Gwynsen. But stopping is not an option as Hekax wheels its head around to snap at Ornstein. The only way forward is his spear, planted directly between the dragon's eyes.

 

It is a cruel echo of the prince's trick: the way he absorbs the thoughts and memories of dragons with one touch to the forehead. What has been transferred between Ornstein and this dragon isn't knowledge, but death. Very quickly Hekax ceases to struggle beneath him, and with one last residual thrash of its tail, the dragon lies bloodied and motionless on the ground.

 

The threat has been neutralized, but Ornstein's mind is not fully out of the adrenal rush as he glances up to take stock of the situation around him. He had been vaguely aware of a scuffle happening nearby, but it is clear that something has been started, and he is watching something that is happening around him with the unchecked and unstoppable nature of a river being undammed.

 

He watches as Lord Gwyn, a bolt of lightning in hand, is sending it flying at where several of the dragons are spiraling in the sky above. He watches, dumbstruck for a moment, as great bursts of flame rain down from the heavens.

 

He watches as he notes the dragonslayers – _they are so close, too close, when did they get so close?_ – taking up formation against the cliffside, and sees the greatarchers loose their arrows into the air.

 

Ornstein is used to taking account of very difficult situations very quickly, but he does not know how to react to this.

 

_Where is Gwynsen?_ he wonders, and when he does not find him on the ground he seeks him out in the skies, for something tells him to look for the form of the King of the Storm. He sees the feathered wyvern weaving its way expertly among arrows, until it is near enough that he can see the prince's face.

 

“Tell them to throw down their weapons, father,” Gwynsen roars, his voice taking on a rare and harrowing quality, “or their lives are forfeit!”

 

“If thou thinkest thyself king already,” Lord Gwyn snarls in return, “then commandest them thyself!”

 

That is when Ornstein realizes: he and Ciaran are not the only ones who had witnessed a riff between father and son. The dragonslayers have seen it also, and they have chosen a side.

 

_Lord Gwyn has approached them. He has won their loyalty,_ Ornstein thinks blindly. _Did they know this would happen? Did they know this would be the result?_

 

He dodges to the side as a jet of flame comes right for him, but still does not pick a target. His spear sits heavily in his hands.

 

_That is why he was sent away_ , his mind provides helplessly. _Engold_.  _That is why. Fool me._

 

With horror, Ornstein head spins to the ripping of flesh, the smell of blood. The dragonslayers are nearby, working efficiently as they make quick work of a grounded and wounded Balmorn. He sees another dead on the ground, and their interpreter – Rohedran – is gravely wounded, fighting fiercely against three dragonslayers who have cornered him, baiting him so expertly the way they have been taught. Ornstein watches the next blow and knows that it is the fatal one, if given enough time; however, the dragonslayers do not give him time to die, and one of them drives the spear right between the howling dragon's eyes.

 

And there they are: the last of the everlasting dragons, the nameless one, beset upon by many foes. The dragonslayers turn their attentions to him, recovering quickly as they re-shift their positioning after one of their fellows is caught in the dragon's jaws. They rely on teamwork, using their greater numbers to their advantage.

 

It is a slaughter.

 

Blood flows in every direction as Ornstein tries to make sense of the chaos. He hears a scream and turns to see one of the lads – Kolten – bloodied and calling for aid, trying to flag down his captain as the critically wounded Balmorn – _still such a beautiful beast,_ an illogical thought mourns – rips into him. Ornstein takes a step in their direction, but that is all; Kolten is already dead.

 

There is a great crackle of lightning, and a gale of of wind, and Ornstein wheels around to see feathered wyvern before him, with Gwynsen on top of it. They lock eyes. Ornstein is still frozen in place. He feels the weight of the spear in his hands. _So close_ \-- close enough to slay the wyvern with one strike. From the beast's back, the prince extends a hand out for him.

 

So much happens all around them, and Ornstein forces himself to look at his husband's face. Gwynsen, too, has chosen a side, and it is not the side of Anor Londo, or of the gods, although the blood of their fellows stains the stone beneath.

 

_Come_ , he can read in Gwynsen's face, although his expression is hooded and mangled by sorrow and pain. Ornstein hesitates. It is as if he is rooted to the ground on which he stands. _I made a vow_ , he thinks. _But I chose to serve, and then to marry, a prince of the sun._ All around him, his men are falling, burned alive by dragon's fire, ripped apart piece-by-piece, armor and all, and still Ornstein cannot move.

 

“We shall leave in peace after this, and not return,” Gwynsen cries. “I know thou seest that it is wrong, this slaughter!”

 

_The slaughter of whom!?_ a distant voice in his head demands, but he knows. This was meant to be a peaceful concord. It was Lord Gwyn who has betrayed them all. Lord Gwyn is the reason the dragonslayers have rushed forward into the jaws of death, towards a dishonorable end.

 

His mind is made up. There is only one duty that matters to him, only one future he can accept. He takes a step forward, reaches out a hand for his prince, but at that moment something in his mind roars.

 

Ornstein is brought suddenly to his knees, his vision flashing white. His hand reaches out instinctively for the back of his helm, but he can feel no damage to metal or flesh. In fact, he can barely feel anything at all.

 

He struggles, trying to get back to his feet, but it as if strings have been cut, and it is all he can do not to collapse into the dirt.

 

Gwynsen has dismounted, and is grabbing at him now. “ _Stand!_ ” he hears the yelled command, perilously close to terror, but Ornstein cannot. He tries to look at Gwynsen, but his head lolls back, powerlessly. He catches only glimpses of sky as he tries to keep his eyes from rolling back into his head.

 

_I have been drugged or poisoned_ , he knows, vaguely, as he fights for every scrap of mental clarity, _but how?!_

 

He hears a curse, and pressure at his waist as Gwynsen goes to lift him as a last resort, but then there is a harsh, loud sound and a sickening _thunk_ , one that Ornstein knows well, for he has spent much time now with Gough's greatarchers.

 

Ornstein lands with his back in the dirt, and from this new vantage point he can see the arrow, nearly as big as one of his spears, protruding from Gwynsen's upper body, near the shoulder. A desperate flare of anguish wracks through him at the sight, as if the wound were in his own body. His prince staggers to one knee in the dirt beside him, and Ornstein is powerless.

 

Another bolt takes Gwynsen's unfortunate wyvern in the leg, missing its neck by hairs, and the great beast howls and whirls around, to grapple with a nimble spearman who is attempting to take advantage of the confusion.

 

Then he hears another familiar voice – it is Ladh, grabbing at his captain from under the armpits. With a great heave, he finds he is now being bodily dragged away, armor and all. Away from the carnage, away from the wyvern, away from Gwynsen.

 

Screams still erupt from all around them. The sounds of the dead, and dying. “It will be alright, captain,” he hears the soldier say, straining with the effort of moving him, but attempting to sound reassuring all the same. Ladh has always been a somewhat diminutive man, a little bit pudgy, but despite his small stature and rowdy nature he has worked tirelessly to be seen as equal to the skills of his fellows, to be worthy of the mantle of a silver knight. He is a ruthless warrior, yet like Artorias, his heart is kind, and gentle. “Worry not. We shall end this.” He is looking into Ornstein's eyes now to give him more small reassurances, and that is why he does not see the mighty thrust of Gwynsen's swordspear.

 

It is over in a moment. The spear penetrates armor, skin, blood, and bone. The gentle heart of Ladh's that Ornstein had admired has been hollowed out instantly, and the light is gone from the soldier's eyes before comprehension has a chance to strike. Gwynsen shakes his swordspear and Ladh's body, limp as a ragdoll, crumples to the Earth in a heap.

 

Both of them are stained with blood, now. Most of it is from the slain soldier, but from the wound in Gwynsen's chest his royal blood has made a mess of his fine armor. The prince is a fearsome sight, his eyes wild as he moves to Ornstein again, but this time he cannot even touch him before another bolt hits him in the opposite arm. He struggles with the swordspear as pain visibly shudders through him, and nearly drops his weapon into the dirt.

 

There is no chance of Gwynsen's lifting him now. That hope is lost. And if he remains, he will be slain where he stands. “ _Go_ ,” Ornstein tries to exclaim, but he is wearing his helm still and can only the mouth the word fruitlessly.

 

Thundering footsteps erupt from behind them, and Ornstein hears the tell-tale cackle of Executioner Smough. The man had been happy enough to enjoy the festivities of the wedding, but this must be the real party for him. Suddenly, a whirring swing of the brute's hammer jumps into Ornstein's vision, mere inches above him from where he lies on the ground. Gwynsen has to quickly strafe out of the way.

 

On the prince's face is anguish. Even now, Ornstein sees, he is weighing his odds of fighting Smough, with both arms injured, while greatarchers fire more of their bolts at him. _It is hopeless. Even for a god, it is hopeless. He must see that. He must._

 

Ornstein sees the moment when the prince makes the inevitable calculation. He turns desperately now to see his mount, the mighty storm wyvern, bearing the full brunt of the archers' fury. The creature is nimble and quick, but it is slowing with blood loss and pain. Gwynsen turns to regard Ornstein on the ground, one last long moment –

 

_Is that him considering it?_ Ornstein wonders. _Is he considering dying here just to prove the strength of his promise to me?_

 

– and then, he darts across the battlefield to the besieged dragonkin, weaving through the flurry of spears and loosed bolts. He is still running as he takes a spearman through the abdomen with his swordspear, and hoists himself up onto the wyvern.

 

_Fly! Go!_ Ornstein thinks desperately, his mind in a haze. But as the wyvern takes to the skies, bearing Gwynsen on its back, the relief he feels is tempered by another thought, echoing over and over, helplessly, in an endless rhythm.

 

_Do not leave me here. Do not leave me._

 

White is encroaching his vision now, and sorrow gives way to confusion gives way to something like blissful unawareness. In his mind's eye he perceives a familiar pair of eyes, lunar blue, regarding him, in the moments before he loses consciousness.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was excited to finally finish and post this! But it's just occurred to me that you probably aren't very happy to read it
> 
> The story isn't over! I hope you'll continue reading and thanks so much for making it this far
> 
> (yeah, being a silver knight in this story is being a redshirt!)


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